Bittg's  Bmttinjj  #trtl«.— JFrontisptrcr. 


'  A  travelling  carriage,  with  four  horses,  dashed  through  the 
turnpike  and  up  the  hill."  P-  49. 


LITTLE  KITTY'S 
KNITTING-NEEDLES, 


ITHER  &TORJXS. 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  THE  "  OILED  FEATHER  SERIES." 


PHILADELPHIA: 

AMERICAN  SUNDAY-SCHOOL  UNION, 
No.  1122  CHESTNUT  STREET. 


NEW  YORK:  589  BROADWAY. 


LITTLE  KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES. 


622710 


LITTLE  KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES. 


CHAPTER  I. 

the  part  of  the  world  in  which 
the  incidents  of  our  story  oc- 
curred, there  live  a  number  of 
highly  respectable  labourers,  who 
are  possessed  of  small  properties  of  their 
own.  These  little  properties  have  been 
handed  down  from  father  to  son,  in  some 
instances,  for  many  generations;  and  the 
different  families  seem  to  be  almost  part 
and  parcel  of  the  soil  itself.  But  now 
many  of  these  families  are  breaking  up, 
and  the  little  estates  are  purchased  by 
neighbouring  proprietors  and  absorbed  in 
their  large  properties. 


5  KITTY  S    KNITTING-NEEDLES. 

It  is  a  very  beautiful  part  of  the  coun- 
try. Hill  and  dale,  wood  and  river,  diver- 
sify the  scene;  and  the  church  spires  and 
towers,  peeping  up  here  and  there,  lead  us 
to  hope  that  amid  this  beautiful  scenery 
there  may  be  found  something  more  beau- 
tiful still, — even  souls  knowing  and  loving 
God,  and  living  for  a  world  fairer  and 
more  beautiful  than  all  the  loveliness 
around. 

There  are  districts  in  that  part  of  the 
country  that  are  famous  for  knitting. 
Almost  every  one  handles  the  "pricks," 
as  the  knitting-needles  are  called.  Knit- 
ting is  part  of  the  business  of  life,  and 
no  small  part  of  its  pleasures.  There  are 
even  knitting-parties,  and  no  end  of  gossip 
at  them ;  and,  in  fact,  knitting  forms  a 
prominent  part  of  the  thoughts,  words 
and  deeds  of  the  female  part  of  these 
good  people's  lives. 


KITTY  S    KNITTING-NEEDLES.  7 

Among  them  lived  a  worthy  man  and 
his  wife,  who  were  possessed  of  about 
forly  acres  of  land.  They  were  indus- 
trious and  thrifty;  they  lived  happily 
together,  and  were  a  good  father  and 
mother  to  a  large  family  of  boys  and 
girls;  and  if  only  their  little  estate  had 
been  clear  from  debt,  their  hearts  would 
have  been  as  light  as  the  lark's  when 
she  soars  to  heaven  in  the  clear  morning 
air,  leaving  behind  her  a  more  glorious 
train  than  ever  adorned  a  monarch  in 
his  court, — a  train  of  clear  and  melodious 
song. 

But  John  Bulwer  had  one  great  trouble 
upon  his  heart,  and,  happy  as  he  and 
his  wife  Mary  were  together,  this  trouble 
kept  them  awake  many  a  night.  Their 
little  estate,  as  we  said,  was  heavily  in 
debt, — not  through  any  fault  of  their's;  for 
they  had  always  been  prudent  and  thrifty; 


O  KITTY  S   KNITTING-NEEDLES. 

but  it  had  been  handed  down  to  them 
with  heavy  encumbrances,  and  they  did 
not  know  the  moment  when  the  lawyer, 
in  whose  power  they  were,  would  turn 
them  out. 

When  John  Bulwer  sowed  a  crop  he 
often  sighed,  and  said  to  himself,  "Ah, 
who  knows  who  will  reap  this  crop?" 
When  he  did  any  little  job  about  the 
house,  the  strokes  of  the  hammer  were  as 
though  they  knocked  against  his  own 
heart,  as  he  said,  "Who  can  tell  for 
whom  I  am  doing  this?" 

At  length  the  evil  day  really  came. 
One  morning  the  postman,  who  went 
round  that  way,  left  a  letter  for  poor  John, 
and  it  contained  a  notice  from  the  lawyer 
to  pay  up  the  mortgage  (meaning  the 
inone/  lent  on  the  security  of  the  farm), 
for,  unless  it  was  paid  within  six  months, 
the  farm  must  be  sold. 


KITTY  S    KNITTING-NEEDLES.  V 

There  was  sore  distress  in  John  Bul- 
wer's  house  when  the  contents  of  this 
letter  became  known;  for  there  was  no 
doubt  but  that  the  farm  must  go.  Look- 
ing forward  to  this  evil  day,  the  worthy 
man  had  often  tried  to  raise  the  money; 
but  he  could  not,  and  now- he  felt  that  in 
a  few  months  the  old  homestead  must  be 
left,  and  he  must  go  forth  into  the  wide 
world. 

Never  did  six  months  pass  so  quickly 
for  the  poor  Bulwers,  as  those  succeed- 
ing the  day  of  notice;  and  at  last  the 
evil  time  drew  near,  and  the  farm  was 
put  up  to  auction.  It  brought  less  than 
was  expected;  some  of  the  interest  could 
not  be  paid;  then  followed  a  sale  of  the 
poor  man's  furniture,  and,  as  he  himself 
anticipated,  he  was  thrown  out  upon  the 
wide  world. 

John  Bulwer's  good  conduct  and  kind, 


10        KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES. 

neighbourly  ways  secured  him  many 
friends  in  this  sad  state  of  affairs.  Every 
one  pitied  him,  and  many  were  willing  to 
do  what  they  could  for  him ;  but  as  almost 
all  had  large  families  to  support,  and  only 
too  many  were  themselves  laden  with 
debt,  they  could  not  do  much. 

The  poor  fellow  was  grateful  for  all  this 
kindness ;  but  he  was  not  the  man  to  eat 
the  bread  of  idleness  or  charity,  when 
he  could  work.  So  he  speedily  cast 
about  him  as  to  what  he  was  to  do.  A 
very  humble  cottage,  at  the  foot  of  a 
neighbouring  hill,  was  to  be  had  for  a 
trifling  rent,  and  that  he  hired  for  a 
dwelling ;  and  a  situation,  offered  by  a 
neighbouring  farmer,  promised  to  give 
him  just  bread  enough  for  his  little  ones. 
John  Bulwer  was  to  be  a  kind  of  head 
man  over  the  farm,  turning  his  hand  to 
whatever  was  wanted,  superintending  the 


KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES.        11 

men,  and  giving  a  general  eye  to  his  em- 
ployer's interests. 

For  a  while  all  went  on  tolerably  well 
in  the  little  cottage;  but  there  was  more 
trouble  at  hand.  ,  Scarlet  fever  broke  out 
in  the  family,  and  swept  away  one  after 
another  of  the  children,  until,  when  the 
disease  had  passed  away  from  the  house, 
it  was  found  that  but  one  child  was  left, 
and  that  one  the  weakest  of  the  little 
party.  Kitty  Bulwer  had  never  been 
strong;  but  she  survived  the  fever,  and 
lived  when  all  the  rest  were  laid  low  in 
their  graves. 

Let  not  my  young  reader  rejoice  in  his 
or  her  strength.  Say  not, "  I  am  too  strong 
and  well  to  be  near  death;  I  will  think 
about  my  soul  when  I  come  to  die."  Ah! 
how  soon  the  strongest  are  laid  low !  Dis- 
ease will  soon  take  away  all  your  strength. 
In  one  day  or  one  night,  you  may  be 


12        KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES. 

reduced  to  such  a  state  of  weakness  that 
you  cannot  either  stand  or  speak.  Pre- 
parations for  another  world  should  never 
be  put  off  because  we  are  strong  and  well. 

So  little  Kitty  was  the  only  one  left, 
and  upon  her  the-  fierce  disease  left  its 
mark;  for  during  her  illness  her  hands 
became  contracted,  so  that  she  was  not 
able,  for  a  considerable  time,  to  help  her- 
self in  the  least. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  loss  John  Bul- 
wer  murmured  not.  He  said,  in  the 
words  of  the  stricken  patriarch,  "  The 
Lord  gave,  and  the  Lord  hath  taken  away : 
blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord."  He 
read  about  Job,  that  man  of  patience ;  and, 
still  better,  he  read  about  Jesus,  the  man 
of  sorrows,  and  he  said,  "The  disciple  is 
not  above  his  master."  He  bowed  his 
head,  and,  amid  all  his  trials,  gave  thanks 
to  God. 


KITTY  S    KNITTING-NEEDLES.  13 

Very  grateful  indeed  were  the  stricken 
parents  that  their  little  daughter  Kitty 
had  been  spared  to  them.  True,  her 
hands  were  a  pitiable  sight,  and  she  was 
evidently  very  delicate,  and  probably 
would  continue  so  all  her  life.  Still,  she 
was  their  child;  and  not  to  be  left  alto- 
gether childless  was  a  great  mercy. 

Some  persons  are  ever  thinking  of  how 
much  they  have  lost,  and  never  look  at 
what  has  been  spared.  Because  the  clouds 
are  thick,  they  shut  their  eyes  to  the  little 
rays  of  sunshine  which  brea*k  through 
them;  and  thus  they  miss  the  alleviation 
and  comfort  which  may  generally  be  found 
even  amid  very  sore  trials.  What  is  there 
so  bad  that  it  could  not  have  been  worse? 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bulwer  often  went  on 
Sunday  (which  was  their  only,  day  of  lei- 
sure) to  look  at  the  graves  of  their  five 
little  darlings,  all  lying  side  by  side  in 


14        KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES. 

the  church-yard,  and  there  they  dropped 
many  a  warm  tear ;  but  often,  also,  they 
stood  over  little  Kitty's  humble  bed  at 
night,  and  watched  her  heavenly  coun- 
tenance as  she  slept,  and  then  they  shed 
a  tear  of  gratitude  and  joy  as  they  looked 
on  her  and  thought  that  they  had  one 
child  left. 

Dear  reader!  always  have  an  eye  for 
your  mercies:  if  you  have  one  eye  for 
your  sorrows  (and  who  can  help  seeing 
trials  and  troubles  when  they  come  upon 
him?),  have  the  other  for  your  mercies, 
and  you  will  find  that  your  heart  will  thus, 
by  God's  grace,  be  kept  from  sinful  re- 
pining, and  have  a  spring  for  exertion,  and 
strength  for  endurance,  until  the  time  of 
trial  be  overpast. 

No  one  who  knew  little  Kitty  Bulwer 
would  have  been  in  the  least  surprised  at 
the  delight  her  parents  took  in  her.  She 


KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES.         15 

was  obedient,  gentle,  cheerful,  and  loved 
God,  and  showed  that  love  in  her  daily  life. 
Always  had  Kitty  a  cheerful  word  and 
smile,  and  the  light  danced  in  her  bright 
eyes  just  as.  the  sunbeams  do  in  the  rip- 
pling mountain  streams. 

Kitty's  great  grief  in  life  was  her  crip- 
pled hands.  She  had  been  very  useful 
about  the  house  before  the  scarlet  fever 
attacked  her.  She  had  delighted  in  help- 
ing her  mother  in  her  daily  household 
work ;  and  her  heart  sank  at  the  idea  of 
being  always  useless, — always  an  encum- 
brance,— unable  to  do  any  thing  to  earn  a 
trifle  to  help  in  the  expenses  of  the  house. 

It  is  very  true,  little  Kitty  knew  how 
to  knit.  Almost  the  very  babies  round 
about  knew  how  to  knit,  and  such  an  in- 
telligent little  girl  as  she  was  not  likely 
to  be  behindhand.  But  of  what  advantage 
was  this,  seeing  that  her  poor  fingers  were 


16        KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES. 

now  so  contracted — and,  indeed,  almost 
twisted — that  they  could  not  hold  the 
needles  any  more?  She  could  not  grasp 
the  thin  things  with  her  contorted  fingers ; 
and  without  knitting-needles  it  was,  of 
course,  impossible  to  knit. 

Often  did  Kitty  lie  awake  at  night,  pon- 
dering over  her  sad  affliction,  and  think- 
ing, "What  can  I  possibly  do,  to  help  my 
father  and  mother?"  At  one  time  she 
fancied  that  she  could  in  some  way  tie 
the  needles  to  her  fingers;  and,  when  that 
failed,  she  got  some  cobbler's  wax,  and 
tried  to  stick  them  there;  but  it  was  all 
in  vain;  the  steel  needles  seemed  deter- 
mined to  have  no  more  to  do  with  Kitty, 
and  at  length  she  was  obliged  to  give  up 
her  experiments  in  despair. 

But,  though  obliged  to  give  up  her  ex- 
periments on  the  steel  needles,  she  still 
continued  to  ponder  in  her  mind  whether 


KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES.         17 

something  could  not  be  done,  and  at  last 
a  bright  idea  flashed  across  her  mind. 
True,  she  could  not  hold  steel  knitting- 
needles;  but,  as  her  fingers  had  not  lost 
all  their  power,  perhaps  she  might  be  able 
to  do  something  with  larger  ones, — the 
only  drawback  to  this  idea  being  the 
coarseness  of  such  work.  All  the  people 
around  her  were  knitting  fine  articles,  and 
for  tnem  they  procured  a  ready  sale.  But 
would  work  done  with  coarse  needles  sell 
at  all? 

"  I  can  never  know  unless  I  try,"  said 
Kitty;  "and  if  only  I  have  a  blessing  on 
my  efforts,  I  shall  do  well,  in  spite  of  all 
my  disadvantages." 

With  Kitty  Bulwer  this  was  the  grand 
point.  She  observed  that,  in  spite  of 
many  days  of  sharp  winds,  the  little  lambs 
throve,  and  grew  into  sheep,  and  also 
that,  with  all  the  vicissitudes  of  the 


18        KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES. 

weather,  the  crops  came  to  perfection ;  and 
"  surely,"  said  she,  "  I  can  do  a  great 
deal,  and  my  work  will  prosper,  if  only  it 
have  a  blessing  from  on  high."  This  idea 
of  "the  blessing"  gradually  became  a 
very  prominent  one  in  Kitty's  mind;  and 
the  more  she  thought  about  it,  and  the 
more  she  prayed  for  it,  the  more  did  she 
expect  it,  and  great  things  from  it  and 
with  it. 

A  neighbouring  carpenter,  who  had  a 
great  regard  for  Kitty's  father,  became 
the  little  girl's  helper,  and  he  promised  to 
make  her  some  needles  of  wood.  Kitty 
visited  him  at  his  shop,  and  he  tried  her 
hands  to  see  how  small  and  fine  a  needle 
she  could  hold,  and  sent  her  away  with 
the  joyful  intelligence  that  she  should 
have  them  ready  for  work  by  the  follow- 
ing Monday  morning. 

Kitty's   father   and   mother   fell  very 


KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES.        19 

readily  into  her  plans,  and  provided  her 
with  some  coarse  wool.  They  were  only 
too  much  delighted  to  find  that  she  could 
occupy  herself  usefully  in  any  way.  They 
knew  that  idle,  time  hangs  heavy  upon  the 
hands,  and  they  remembered,  good  as 
Kitty  was,  that  what  the  Christian  poet 
had  written  was  true  : — 

"  For  Satan  finds  some  mischief  still 
For  idle  hands  to  do." 

The  head  full  of  knowledge,  the  heart 
full  of  love,  and  the  hands  full  of  work, 
and,  with  the  blessing  of  God,  we  may 
be  kept  out  of  much  evil.  It  is  a  mistake 
to  suppose  that  idleness  is  happiness. 
Very  few  are  more  truly  miserable  than 
the  idle ;  and  it  is  well  known  by  medical 
men  that  idleness  will  even  make  people 
ill :  it  gives  them  what  the  French  call 
ennui.  And  when  people  are  troubled 
with  ennui  they  get  cross,  and  do  not 


20        KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES. 

know  what  to  do  with  themselves,  and 
become  fretful  both  in  body  and  mind, — 
many  a  time  fancy  themselves  a  prey  to 
all  sorts  of  diseases  and  trials. 

Kitty  Bulwer  would  have  always  found 
something  to  do ;  but  to  have  a  regular  re- 
source like  this  was  quite  a  bright  prospect. 

It  required  some  practice  on  Kitty's 
part  to  be  able  to  hold  the  needles,  and 
her  first  attempts  at  knitting  were  very 
awkward;  but  she  soon  got  used  to  them, 
and,  by  degrees,  she  became  quite  handy 
at  her  work. 

Even  in  the  humblest  spheres  of  life  we 
are  liable  to  trials  and  troubles  which  will 
test  our  Christian  character;  and,  humble 
as  Kitty  Bulwer's  position  now  was,  she 
found  herself  tried  in  it.  Her  rough  work 
could  not,  of  course,  for  one  moment  be 
compared  with  the  fine  knitting  done  in 
the  neighbourhood  around;  and,  indeed, 

V . 


KITTY  S   KNITTING-NEEDLES.  21 

she  did  not  pretend  that  it  could.  She 
did  not  exhibit  it  to  any  person, — much 
less  make  any  boast  of  it.  Still,  she  found 
trouble  in  this  humble  work. 

The  carpenter  who  had  befriended  her, 
and  made  her  needles,  had  a  daughter, 
whose  name  ^was  Nancy ;  and  this  Nancy 
was  not  a  well-disposed  girl.  80  long  as 
she  could  have  every  thing  her  own  way, 
she  seemed  amiable  enough ;  but  as  Nancy 
could  not  always  have  her  own  way,  any 
more  than  other  people,  we  need  not  be 
surprised  at  hearing  that  she  was  very 
often  out  of  temper.  Nancy  Sawyer  was 
full  of  self-conceit.  She  was  also  jealous 
and  selfish,  and,  in  fact,  had  in  her  cha- 
racter many  elements  of  misery  for  others 
as  well  as  herself. 

Just  now  this  unamiable  girl  was  very 
wroth  with  Kitty  Bulwer.  It  so  hap- 
pened that  she  wanted  her  father  to  turn 


22        KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES. 

an  old  box  into  a  rabbit-hutch  for  her, 
while  he  was  engaged  in  making  little 
Kitty  Bulwer's  knitting-needles,  and,  be- 
cause he  would  not  put  by  his  work  and 
turn  at  once  to  her's,  she  flew  into  a 
dreadful  passion. 

"You  never  do  anything  forme,"  cried 
Nancy  Sawyer,  "  although  I  am  your  own 
daughter;  but  any  brat  that  comes  in  the 
way  and  wheedles  you,  you'll  do  any  thing 
they  like." 

"Nancy!  Nancy!"  said  the  carpenter, 
11  think  before  you  say  such  an  untruth. 
Didn't  I  mend  your  hoe  and  spade  for  you 
the  other  day  almost  as  soon  as  you  gave 
them  to  me?" 

"Ay,  ay,"  cried  Nancy,  "  because  you 
wanted  me  to  work  in  the  garden;  that 
was  for  you  as  well  as  for  myself.  But 
you  won't  make  this  hutch  that  I  want 
only  for  myself." 


KITTYS  KNITTING-NEEDLES.         2 

11  'Tis  true,"  answered  the  carpenter, 
"  that  I  hurried  with  your  hoe  and  spader 
because  you  wanted  them  for  a  useful  pur- 
pose ;  and  now  I  am  hurrying  with  Kitty 
Bulwer's  knitting-needles,  because  it  is  a 
useful  job ;  and,  indeed,  more  than  that,  it 
is  an  important  one  to  her." 

"Ay,  ay;  but  Kitty  is  not  your  daugh- 
ter; and  I  think  you  ought  to  help  your 
own  daughter  before  any  one  else." 

"  Nancy,'1  answered  the  carpenter,  "we 
may  be  selfish  in  what  we  do  for  our  own 
relations,  as  well  as  in  what  we  do  for 
ourselves ;  and  I  should  be  selfish  if,  to 
please  you,  I  took  your  plaything  in  hand 
before  these  necessary  things  for  a  sick 
neighbour." 

"I   hope   they'll   never   come   to  any 

good!"  passionately  exclaimed  the  wicked 

^girl,  in  a  high  tone  of  voice;  "and  I  don't 

believe  they  will.     What  can  a  twisted- 


24        KITTY'S  KNITTING-KEEDLES. 

fingered  creature  like  her  do  with  knitting- 
needles?  I  don't  believe  she'll  ever  make 
a  sixpence  with  all  her  knitting !"  And,  so 
saying,  Nancy  Sawyer  flung  herself  out 
of  her  father's  workshop  in  a  great  rage. 

The  carpenter  was  a  kind-hearted  man, 
but  he  was  sorely  in  fault  in  not  correct- 
ing his  daughter.  The  consequence  was, 
her  temper  grew  worse  and  worse,  and 
she  promised  fair  to  be  a  plague  to  him 
as  well  as  to  herself.  Contenting  himself 
with  not 'doing  the  hutch,  and  keeping  on 
at  the  knitting-needles,  the  carpenter  took 
no  more  notice  of  his  daughter's  passion. 
But  the  matter  did  not  pass  so  easily  out 
of  Nancy's  mind.  This  evil  girl  deter- 
mined to  spite. Kitty  whenever  she  could, 
and  many  were  the  plans  for  doing  so, 
which  she  turned  over  in  her  mind. 

Meanwhile,  Kitty  Bulwer  was  turning^ 
over  many  plans  in  her  mind  as  to  what 


KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES.        25 

she  should  do  with  the  produce  of  hlr 
work.  Two  great  objects  she  had  in 
view;  and,  as  her  father  had  told  her  that 
she  might  have  for  herself  whatever  she 
was  able  to  earn,  she  determined  to  divide 
her  earnings  between  the  two  great  aims 
she  wished  to  carry  out.  One  of  Kitty's 
great  desires  was  to  add  something  to  her 
father  and  mother's  comfort;  the  other 
was  to  be  able  to  send  something  to  the 
missionaries,  in  whose  work  she  had  taken 
the  liveliest  interest  almost  ever  since 
she  could  understand  any  thing.  There 
was  to  be  one  stocking  out  of  each  pair 
for  Kitty's  father  and  mother,  and  an- 
other stocking  for  the  missionaries;  and 
if  only  her  work  were  blessed,  Kitty 
hoped  to  do  great  things. 

"Great  things,  indeed!"  perhaps  some 
.of  our  young  readers  exclaim ;  "how  could 
she  be  so  foolish  as  to  expect  that?  Per- 


26        KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES. 

Haps  she  might  do  something;  but  to  ex- 
pect to  do  great  things  is  rather  too  much. 
If  Kitty  could  give  a  donation  of  a  thou- 
sand dollars,  or  even  a  hundred,  it  might 
be  something  great;  but  not  with  the 
humble  means  at  her  disposal." 

But,  strange  as  it  may  appear,  Kitty 
Bulwer  really  did  aspire  to  doing  some- 
thing great.  It  was  one  of  her  great  en- 
couragements in  thus  trying  to  make  use 
of  her  crippled  fingers,  that  she  might  be 
eminently  useful;  and  she  thus  reasoned 
with  herself: — "One-half  of  my  money  is 
to  buy  Bibles  and  good  books,  to  send  to 
those  who  have  none.  It  may  be  that  a 
Bible,  or  a  good  book,  or  some  mission- 
ary's labour,  for  which  my  money  will  help 
pay,  will  be  the  means  of  the  conversion 
of  souls;  and  would  it  not  be  worth  even 
a  whole  lifetime  of  labour,  to  be  the  in- 
strument of  bringing  even  one  soul  to 


KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES.        27 

glory,  or  of  rescuing  one  from  the  fearful 
horrors  of  the  lost?" 

Thus  reasoned  Kitty  Bulwer  with  her- 
self; and  she  determined,  with  God's  bless- 
ing, to  succeed.  "I  will  try,"  said  she, 
"again  and  again,  until  I  am  able  to  knit 
with  these  needles,  even  if  it  takes  me 
years  before  I  succeed." 

A  very  useful  lesson  does  little  Kitty 
teach  us  all.  How  apt  are  we  to  think 
that  we  cannot  do  any  thing !  One  says, 
"I  am  too  young;"  another,  "I  am  too 
old;"  another,  "I  am  too  poor;"  another, 
"I  am  too  small,"  and  so  on;  few,  com- 
paratively, remembering  that  God  requires 
from  a  man  according  to  what  he  hath, 
and  not  according  to  what  he  hath  not. 
Every  one  can  do  something  in  God's 
kingdom  and  to  promote  his  glory,  and 
oftentimes  he  uses  the  very  feeblest  instru- 
ments to  bring  about  the  end  he  would 


28        KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES. 

have  accomplished.  But  the  great  point 
is,  to  be  determined.  If  we  make  up  our 
minds  that,  with  God's  blessing,  we  will  do 
what  is  right,  he  will  help  us  in  carrying 
out  that  determination :  we  must  do  our 
part; — he  will  not  fail  in  doing  his. 

Dear  young  reader !  sometimes  remember 
poor  little  Kitty  Bulwer  with  her  twisted 
fingers,  and  think,  What  can  I  do?  and 
be  determined  to  do  it. 


KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES.        29 


CHAPTEE  II. 

UAVWTFTER  many  attempts,  the 
young  knitter  succeeded  very 
well;  and  great  was  her  joy, 
and  great  also  the  delight  of  her 
parents,  when  she  exhibited  to  them  the 
first  pair  of  finished  stockings.  The  car- 
penter also  was  highly  delighted;  he  was 
rejoiced  that  his  needles  had  done  so  well, 
and  his  benevolent  heart  was  glad,  as  he 
thought  that  he  had  been  the  means  of 
benefiting  a  fellow-creature.  Several  of 
the  neighbours  also  came  in,  and  shared 
in  the  family  joy,  and  spoke  encouragingly 
to  Kitty  of  her  work.  Many  of  them 
thought  that  it  would  have  been  quite  a 

3* 


30        KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES. 

disgrace  for  a  woman  or  girl  not  to  be  able 
to  handle  the  needles:  so  they  also,  even 
though  they  rejoiced  on  no  higher  ground, 
were  yet  well  pleased. 

There  was  only  one  person  who  was  not 
pleased;  and  that  was  Nancy  Sawyer. 
That  evil-minded  girl  had  been  for  a  long 
time  on  the  watch  to  do  Kitty  Bulwer 
some  harm,  and  was  sorely  grieved  that, 
as  yet,  no  opportunity  had  been  afforded 
her.  True,  she  had  been  able  to  give  some 
vent  to  her  spite;  for  when  Kitty  sat 
knitting  on  the  sunny  side  of  a  neighbour- 
ing hedge,  singing  now  and  again  snatches 
of  her  favourite  hymns,  she  used  to  come 
and  twit  her  about  her  failures  and  mock  at 
her  twisted  fingers.  At  times  she  used  to 
put  her  own  fingers  into  strange,  twisted 
shapes,  and  hold  them  up  before  Kitty's 
face,  and  then  she  used  to  pretend  to  try 
and  knit  in  an  awkward  fashion ;  but  she 


KITTY  S    KNITTING-NEEDLES.  6L 

had  been  obliged  to  content  herself  with 
these  evil  ways:  she  dared  not  really  lift 
a  hand  against  her  little  neighbour. 
Nevertheless,  Nancy  Sawyer  kept  con- 
stantly in  view  her  intention  of  playing 
Kitty  as  scurvy  a  trick  as  she  could;  and 
the  great  desire  of  her  mind  was  to  get 
hold  of  the  newly-finished  pair  of  stock- 
ings, and  to  destroy  them  if  possible. 
"That  will  be  tenfold  better,"  said  Nancy, 
"than  hindering  her  as  she  goes  on.  That 
will  bring  all  her  work  to  nothing  in  a 
moment;  that  will  pay  her  out  for  all  I 
owe  her,  and  I  shall  have  my  revenge." 

In  the  course  of  a  little  time  Nancy 
Sawyer  got  the  opportunity  she  desired. 
Kitty  Bulwer's  new  stockings  were  lying 
on  the  window-sill,  and  Nancy  spied  them 
as  she  passed  by  that  way.  Cautiously 
did  she  peep  through  the  window,  to  see 
if  any  one  were  at  hand;  and  when  she 


32        KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES. 

had  made  fully  sure  of  the  room's  being 
empty,  she  took  her  scissors  from  her 
pocket  and  gave  the  stockings  several 
small  cuts;  then,  with  a  wicked  smile  upon 
her  mouth,  she  crept  off  as  quietly  as  she 
could. 

When  Nancy  Sawyer  had  fairly  made 
her  escape,  and  was  out  in  the  fields,  she 
put  her  hands  to  her  sides,  and  threw  back 
her  head,  and  burst  out  into  a  loud  fit  of 
laughter.  "Ha,  ha!"  cried  she;  "I've 
done  it  for  you  now,  my  fine  lady:  you'll 
stand  in  the  way  of  my  hutches  again, 
won't  you?  I  think  I've  paid  you  off 
pretty  handsomely  now — ha,  ha,  ha!"  and 
Nancy  roared  out  with  laughter  again. 
Nancy  Sawyer's  heart  was  glad  for  the 
moment.  She  had  just  such  happiness  as 
the  devils  have  when  they  are  able  to  do 
mischief;  and,  indeed,  she  had  just  yielded 
herself  as  an  instrument  to  Satan,  to  do 


KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES.        33 

what  he  desired.  Whoever  spites  another, 
is  thereby  doing  the  evil  spirit's  work. 
Malice,  spite,  revenge,  are  all  the  devil's 
delight;  and  let  no  young  reader  of  this 
story  yield  himself  or  herself  to  Satan,  a 
ready  instrument  to  do  his  will.  Is  not 
the  very  thought  of  such  a  thing  horrible? 
The  bare  idea  of  being  an  instrument  of 
the  devil  ought  to  make  us  shudder,  and 
deter  us  from  rendering  evil  for  evil. 

When  Kitty  Bulwer  discovered  her 
misfortune,  her  little  heart  was  almost 
broken.  A  kind  neighbour  who  was  going 
to  the  next  town,  where  the  stockings 
were  generally  bought,  called  to  take 
Kitty's  pair.  The  good  woman  had  all 
along  taken  an  interest  in  the  child's 
efforts,  and  had  promised  to  do  her  best 
to  sell  her  stockings  together  with  her 
own;  and,  although  no  one  knew  it,  she 

had  even  made  up  her  mind  to  buy  the 
c 


34        KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES. 

stockings  herself,  if  she  could  not  find  a 
purchaser.  "  "Tis  a  brave  thing,"  said 
this  honest  woman,  ''for  that  young  crea- 
ture to  work  so  hard  with  those  crippled 
fingers;  and  I'll  be  bound  she  has  some 
good  way  in  her  head  of  spending  what 
she  earns.  If  she  does  get  some  of  my 
money,  it  won't  go  to  any  bad  use ;  some 
one  will  be  the  better  of  it." 

Mrs.  Wilson  was  a  right  cheery  woman, 
one  who  was  always  glad  to  do  good  to 
others,  and  who  made  the  best  of  every 
thing  as  it  turned  up.  So,  humming  a 
tune,  she  made  her  appearance  at  Kitty 
Bulwer's  house. 

"Here  I  am,"  said  Mrs.  Wilson,  throw- 
ing down  a  large  bundle;  "here  is  some 
of  my  girl's  fine  work  going  into  town,  and 
I'm  come  for  your  coarse  stockings,  Kitty; 
fine  capital  stockings  for  some  big  giant: 
why,  one  pair  of  them  would  make  a 


KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES.        35 

dozen  of  our's.  Folks  think  your  stockings 
won't  sell,"  said  Mrs.  Wilson,  "but  I'm 
sure  they  will.  I  think  I  know  somebody 
who  will  buy  them.  They're  capital  for 
any  rheumatic  or  gouty  people,  or  for 
drawing  on  over  the  others.  I  never  saw 
any  of  these  in  the  market:  so  you'll  have 
the  market  all  to  yourself;  and  who 
knows,  Kitty,  but  you'll  get  a  name  for 
coarse  stockings,  and  make  a  fortune  in 
the  end?" 

Kitty  laughed  at  the  idea  of  the  fortune, 
and  laid  hold  of  her  stockings  to  put  them 
up  in  paper. 

"Stop!  stop!"  said  Mrs.  Wilson;  "let 
me  run  my  eye  over  them.  I  should  like 
to  know  well  what  I'm  recommending.  I 
must  be  able  to  say,  'I  know  they're  good 
work.'" 

Kitty  handed  her  friend  the  stockings, 
and  fixed  her  eyes  upon  her,  hoping  to  see 


36        KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES. 

a  look  of  approbation  upon  her  face.  Mr?. 
Wilson  was  herself  one  of  the  best  knitters 
in  the  neighbourhood,  and  therefore  her 
opinion  would  be  worth  something ;  and  in 
Kitty's  mind,  if  it  were  favourable,  she 
felt  pretty  sure  that  the  stockings  would 
be  sold.  Judge,  therefore,  of  her  distress 
when  she  saw  Mrs.  Wilson's  eyebrows 
lifted  up,  and  then  when  she  perceived  a 
frown  gathering  upon  her  brow ! 

"They're  as  good  as  I  could  make  them. 
Indeed,  I've  done  my  best,"  sobbed  Kitty, 
as  she  burst  into  tears;  for  Mrs.  Wilson 
had  steadily  fixed  her  eyes  upon  the  stock- 
ings, and  was  evidently  in  a  high  state  of 
displeasure. 

"You  have  done  your  best,  I  believe, 
my  poor  child,"  said  her  friend,  "and  the 
stockings  are  as  well  knitted  as  if  you  had 
been  paid  a  ten-dollar  note  for  doing  them  ; 
but  look  here!"  And  she  showed  poor 


KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES.        37 

Kitty  the  little  cuts  in  the  wool.  "How 
did  these  come  here?"' 

When  Kitty  saw  the  cuts,  her  heart 
was  ready  to  break.  In  a  moment  all 
her  golden  visions  of  the  good  she  should 
do,  and  of  help  for  her  father,  vanished 
from  her  mind,  and  she  felt  as  if  this  ca- 
lamity would  quite  crush  her  spirit. 

"Come,  Kitty;  we  must  not  waste  our 
time  in  crying  over  the  matter.  ;  There  is 
some  mystery  here:  these  are  the  cuts  of 
some  sharp  instrument,  and,  as  they  are  in 
more  places  than  one,  my  belief  is  that 
they  have  not  come  here  by  accident.  We 
must  unravel  this  mystery.  What  has 
happened  once  may  happen  perhaps  again  ; 
and  'twill  never  do  to  knit  stockings 
to  have  them  cut  in  pieces  in  this  way. 
If  these  stockings  have  been  cut  by  de- 
sign, the  person  that  cut  them  must  have 
wished  to  do  you  some  harm, — that's  quite 


38         KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES. 

plain.  Now,  who  is  there  hereabouts  that 
has  ever  tried  to  do  you  any  harm?" 

"The  only  one  that  ever  was  unkind  to 
me,"  sobbed  Kitty,  "was  Nancy  Sawyer; 
but  I  have  no  reason  to  think  she  cut  the 
stockings.  Indeed,  I  don't  know  that  she 
has  been  this  way  at  all.  Oh,  dear!  it 
was  a  cruel  thing  to  do!" 

' '  We  must  try  and  find  out  more  about 
it,"  said  Mrs.  Wilson;  "but,  mean  while,  let 
"us  not  be  idle.  I  never  like  to  lose  any 
time  in  useless  fretting.  Let  us  see  what 
we  can  do  to  repair  the  loss.  The  best 
thing  you  can  do,  Kitty,  is  to  set  about  a 
new  pair  of  stockings  at  once:  they'll  be 
ready  against  next  market-day;  and  you 
sha'n't  want  for  wool,  for  I'll  buy  these 
stockings  from  you  for  the  price  of  the 
wool.  I  want  a  piece  of  net  for  our  fruit- 
trees,  and  this  will  just  do  to  make  it :  so 
you  can  start  again,  and  every  thing  will 


KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES.        39 

turn  out  for  the  best.  If  you  asked  a 
blessing  on  your  work,  not  even  this  sad 
misfortune  can  prevent  its  coming.  Now 
good-by."  And  Mrs.  Wilson  took  her  de- 
parture, with  a  great  many  thoughts  in 
her  head,  leaving  poor  Kitty  standing  at 
the  cottage-door  with  a  great  many  tears 
in  her  eyes. 

"I'll  unravel  this  mystery,"  said  Mrs. 
Wilson  to  herself,  "even  if  it  costs  me 
fifty  dollars."  And,  ruminating  on  the 
matter,  turning  it  over  again  and  again  in 
her  mind,  she  trudged  along  to  the  market 
town. 

The  triumphing  of  the  wicked  is  short. 
An  eye  is  upon  them  when  they  do  not 
think  of  it,  and  their  evil  is  brought  to 
light.  So  was  it  in  the  present  case. 
Nancy  Sawyer  was  destined  to  be  dis- 
covered in  a  very  unexpected  way. 

As  Mrs.  Wilson  was  going  to  the  mar- 


40        KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES. 

ket  town  with  her  bundle  of  knitting,  her 
way  lay  through  the  very  fields  where 
Nancy  Sawyer  had  been  giving  vent  to 
her  delight  and  exultation  at  having  suc- 
cessfully accomplished  her  evil  deed;  and, 
as  she  walked  along,  she  saw  a  poor  old 
man,  and  apparently  his  little  daughter, 
lying  near  the  fence  by  the  wayside.  Mrs. 
Wilson  was  not  the  woman  to  pass  by 
any  one  in  distress  without  a  kind  word : 
so  she  stopped  and  spoke  to  the  poor 
people.  The  old  man  said  he  had  had 
very  little  to  eat  that  day;  "and  indeed," 
said  he,  "we  have  not  met  with  any  one 
who  would  give  us  any  thing.  The  only 
person  we  have  seen  this  way  was  a  girl, 
that  we  thought  was  mad;  and  she  fright- 
ened my  poor  child,  here,  almost  out  of 
her  very  wits." 

Mrs.  Wilson's  curiosity  was  a  good  deal 
stirred  at  this.     She  did  not  know  of  any 


KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES.        41 

one's  being  insane  in  the  neighbourhood: 
so  she  put  a  few  questions  to  the  poor 
people,  to  find  out  something  more  about 
the  matter. 

"What  kind  of  girl  was  she?"  asked 
Mrs.  Wilson. 

"A  tall,  slouch  ing-looking  girl,  with  a 
red  handkerchief  crossed  upon  her  breast, 
and  a  straw  bonnet  with  a  yellow  faded 
ribbon." 

"Why,  sure  as  you  live,"  said  Mrs. 
Wilson,  "it  must  have  been  Nancy  Saw- 
yer. But  she's  not  mad.  And  what  did 
she  say  or  do  to  frighten  you,  my  child?" 
asked  Mrs.  Wilson. 

"Why,  she  was  so  wild,  like,"  answered 
the  little  girl.  "She  didn't  see  us,  for  we 
were  then  lying  at  the  other  side  of  the 
fence,  under  yon  ferns ;  but  she  talked  to 
herself,  and  threw  herself  about,  and  was 
quite  mad,  like.  I  couldn't  hear  all  she 

4* 


* 

42        KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES. 

said,  for  we  were  not  close  enough ;  but 
siie  was  saying  she  had  done  for  some- 
body, and  she  cried  out,  'Ha,  ha,  ha!'  very 
often." 

"As  far  as  we  could  make  out,"  chimed 
in  the  old  man,  "  somebody  had  angered 
her,  and  she  had  been  spiting  the  person, 
and  had  her  revenge,  and  she  was  de- 
lighted at  whatever  she  had  done." 

"Ho!  ho!"  said  Mrs.  Wilson  to  her- 
self; "  I'm  on  the  scent  now.  That  girl  was 
Nancy  Sawyer,  and  I  expect  she  has  been 
cutting  Kitty  Bulwer's  stockings."  And, 
so  saying,  she  gave  a  penny  or  two  to  the 
poor  folks,  and  went  on  her  way. 


KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES.        43 


CHAPTER  III. 


Mrs.  Wilson  returned 
from  market,  she  came  back 
by  Kitty's  cottage.  The  little 
girl  had  expected  to  have  re- 
ceived her  first  earnings  just  at  this  time: 
so  it  was  a  sore  trial  to  her  to  see  Mrs. 
Wilson  without  having  her  hopes  realized. 
There  was  a  smile,  however,  on  tliat  good 
woman's  face  which  made  Kitty  feel  sure 
that  she  had  something  interesting  to 
tell. 

"  I  have  it  all,"  said  Mrs.  Wilson. 
11  There  can  be  little  doubt  that  Nancy 
Sawyer  did  all  the  mischief.  That's  the 
way  she  took  to  spite  you.  I'll  go  to  her 


44        KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES. 

father,  and  get  her  such  a  punishment  as 
will  do  her  good  for  the  rest  of  her  life." 

It  was  some  time  before  Kitty  Bulwer 
could  fully  persuade  herself  that  Nancy 
Sawyer  could  have  been  guilty  of  so 
wanton  an  act  of  mischief.  At  last,  how- 
ever, she  came  to  be  of  Mrs.  Wilson's 
opinion. 

"  I  fear,"  said  she,  after  thinking  for 
a  long  time,  "  she  did  it.  But  don't  get 
her  punished :  I'd  rather  lose  the  stockings 
than  have  her  suffer." 

Mrs.  Wilson  could  not  understand  this 
at  all.  She  thought  that  a  good  whipping 
was  just  what  Nancy  Sawyer  deserved : 
and,  indeed,  she  went  so  far  as  to  say  that 
she  should  have  no  objection  to  give  it 
to  her  herself, —  "the  good-for-nothing 
hussy,"  said  she;  "but  she'll  suffer  for  it 
some  way  or  other." 

Mrs.  Wilson    was    rather    vexed   that 


KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES.        45 

Kitty  would  not  let  her  go  to  the  car- 
penter to  get  his  daughter  severely  pun- 
ished. She  said,  however,  that  it  was 
Kitty's  stockings  that  had  been  spoiled, 
and  that  it  was  her  affair,  and  that  she 
would  leave  it  where  it  was,  as  such  was 
her  wish;  and,  after  encouraging  Kitty  to 
begin  another  pair  of  stockings  as  soon  as 
she  could  get  the  coarse  worsted,  she  took 
her  leave. 

No  doubt  now  remained  on  Kitty  Bul- 
wer's  mind  as  to  who  had  injured  her 
work ;  and  she  was  the  more  confirmed  in 
her  belief  by  the  fact  that  Nancy  Sawyer 
avoided  her  as  much  as  she  could.  That 
evil  girl  was  not  without  a  conscience ;  and 
her  conscience  would  not  let  her  look  Kitty 
in  the  face. 

"I  must  pray  for  that  girl,"  said  Kitty. 
"We  are  told  to  pray  for  those*  that 
despitefully  use  us  and  persecute  us;  and 


46        KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES. 

if  she  goes  on  in  her  present  temper,  she'll 
be  sure  to  come  to  ruin."  v 

From  that  day  forth  Nancy  Sawyer 
was  never  an  entire  day  out  of  Kitty 
Bulwer's  mind.  Her  one  great  wish  was 
that  she  should  come  to  repentance  and 
not  perish  at  the  last.  Kitty's  parents 
had  the  same  desire.  They  could  not 
but  feel  sorely  hurt  at  their  poor  child's 
having  been  so  persecuted;  but  they  were 
ready  to  bless  them  that  persecuted  them. 
They  knew  that  was  acceptable  to  God. 

Sad  as  poor  Kitty's  misfortune  was,  she 
was  not  destined  to  be  entirely  disap- 
pointed in  her  desires  of  earning,  both  for 
o?oing  good  and  for  her  parents.  On  the 
other  hand,  a  double  blessing  was  about 
to  be  bestowed  upon  her. 

As  the  little  girl  had  been  so  much  put 
back  by  the  loss  of  the  first  pair  of  stock- 
ings, she  began  earnestly  to  think  what 


KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES.        47 

.  she  could  do  to  repair  the  loss.     At  last 
she  hit  upon  a  thought. 

Some  little  distance  from  Kitty's  cot- 
tage lay  the  coach-road,  and  on  "that  road 
was  a  very  steep  hill.  The  little  girl, 
whenever  she  went  that  way,  had  ob- 
served that  the  horses  generally  stopped 
when  half-way  up  the  hill  to  take  breath, 
and  then  it  was  necessary  for  some  one 
to  put  a  stone  behind  the  wheels  to  pre- 
vent their  slipping  down  the  hill, — espe- 
cially in  frosty  weather.  As  many  of  the 
carriages  passing  that  way  had  only  the 
driver  on  the  outside,  Kitty  thought  that 
if  she  took  her  needles  and  did  her  work 
by  the  roadside,  she  might  be  at  hand  to 
supply  a  stone  for  the  wheels,  and  so  might 
earn  some  pence. 

The  old  man  who  kept  the  turnpike  at 
the  bottom  of  the  hill  agreed  to  give  the 
child  shelter  in  case  of  the  weather's  turn- 


48        KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES. 

ing  out  unexpectedly  bad;  and  it  was  set- 
tled that  she  should  go  just  when  she 
liked  and  stay  as  long  as  she  pleased. 
In  this  matter  also  the  carpenter  proved 
himself  a  friend.  He  promised  to  throw 
together  a  rough  seat,  or  bench,  for  his 
young  friend;  and  he  suggested  that  she 
should  have  a  couple  of  wedge-shaped 
pieces  of  wood,  which  would  be  lighter 
than  stone  to  move,  and  would  answer 
the  purpose  more  effectually. 

"Besides  which,"  said  the  carpenter, 
"it  will  look  much  better  and  more 
useful,  like;  and,  perhaps,  when  folks  see 
you  with  your  regular  tools  they  will  be 
more  inclined  to  give  you  something 
than  if  you  just  put  a  stone  behind  their 
wheels." 

The  carpenter  was  as  good  as  his  word. 
He  soon  put  together  a  rustic  seat,  and 
made  the  wedges,  and  Kitty  took  her 


KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES.        49 

place  by  the  roadside  one  sunshiny  morn- 
ing, with  her  needles  in  her  hand  and  the 
wedges  by  her  side. 

Kitty  was  not  discouraged  because  at 
first  not  many  pence  came  to  her  lot. 
Her  new  stockings  were  getting  on,  and 
she  was  delivered  from  the  cruel  taunts 
of  Nancy  Sawyer,  and  the  little  she  had 
received  would  buy  wool  for  three  or  four 
pair  more  of  stockings :  so  she  thought  she 
had  no  cause  to  complain.  Kitty  Bulwer 
was  not  one  of  those  children  who  expect 
every  thing  to  be  done  in  a  moment:  she 
had  learned  patience  in  the  school  of  afflic- 
tion, and  her  contented  mind  enabled  her 
to  wait  quietly  for  results. 

There  was,  however,  what  some  people 
would  call  a  great  piece  of  good  luck  in 
store  for  Kitty.  One  day  a  travelling- 
carriage,  with  four  horses,  dashed  through 
the  turnpike  and  up  the  hill.  The  driver, 


50        KITTY'S  KXITTIXG-XEEDLES. 

in  all  probability,  thought  to  surmount 
the  hill  at  a  gallop,  and  whipped  and 
spurred  his  horses  so  as  to  reach  the  top 
in  a  single  run ;  but,  midway,  the  horses 
found  their  work  too  heavy  for  them,  and 
the  leaders,  apparently  quite  out  of  breath, 
stumbled,  and  fell.  Kitty  was  at  her 
post.  Had  she  not  been,  who  can  tell  what 
fearful  consequences  might  have  ensued? 
For  the  carriage  was  heavily  laden  with 
luggage,  and  the  great  probability  was  that 
it  would  drag  back  horses  and  all,  down 
the  steep  descent.  Kitty,  as  we  have  said, 
was  at  her  post,  and,  quick  as  thought, 
she  was  in  the  middle  of  the.  road,  and  in 
another  moment  her  two  wedges  were 
pushed  firmly  under  the  hind-wheels.  The 
driver  soon  saw  that  it  was  all  right,  and 
then  leaped  down  to  help  to  extricate  the 
horses  and  to  wait  on  the  occupants  of  the 
carriage.  These  latter  had  been  greatly 


KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES.        51 

terrified.  They  consisted  of  a  lady  and 
her  little  daughter,  and  they  were  both  as 
white  as  snow  with  fright,  and  their  eyes 
were  wet  with  tears :  they  felt  that  they 
had  escaped  from  a  great  peril  indeed. 
Kitty  had  by  this .  time  gone  back  to  her 
seat  and  resumed  her  knitting. 

"It  is  a  kind  providence  that  you  have 
not  all  been  destroyed,"  said  a  gentleman 
who  came  up  just  at  that  moment:  "you 
might  have  been  killed,  but  for  yonder 
little  girl  on  that  seat." 

"  The  horses  cannot  go  on  for  some 
time,"  said  the  driver;  at  which  the  lady 
said, — 

"  Come,  Mary,  and  we'll  go  and  thank 
the  little  girl  for  having  been  the  means 
of  doing  so  much  for  us." 

This  Mary  was  about  Kitty's  own  size; 
but  she  was  even  much  more  delicate  in 
form.  She  was  thin  and  pale,  and  it  was 


52        KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES. 

quite  evident  that  she  was  not  strong 
upon  her  feet:  indeed,  her  feet  were  so 
wrapped  up  that  it  was  difficult  for  her  to 
walk.  Young  as  she  was,  she  was  a 
martyr  to  rheumatism.  Her  bones  often 
ached,  and  it  was  only  by  great  care  that 
she  had  been  reared. 

"  Thank  you,  my  little  girl,  a  thousand 
times,"  said  the  lady  to  Kitty;  "for  I 
believe  that,  under  Providence,  you  have 
saved  our  lives." 

"Yes,  thank  you,"  said  Mary.  "  I  arn 
sure  we  shall  never  forget  you :  shall  we, 
mother?" 

Kitty  curtsied  and  blushed,  and  at  last 
she  stammered  out  that  she  was  very  glad 
she  had  been  of  any  use. 

"  I  think,  under  God,  you  have  saved 
our  lives,"  said  the  lady;  "and  I  should 
like  to  give  you  some  little  acknowledg- 
ment of  our  thankfulness."  Whereupon, 


KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES.        53 

having  drawn  a  handsome  silk  purse  from 
her  pocket,  she  took  five  five-dollar  notes 
from  it,  and  put  them  into  Kitty  Bulwer's 
hand. 

Nothing  could  have  set  Kitty  more  at 
ease  than  the  lady's  mention  of  her  thank- 
fulness to  God. 

"These  are  good  people,"  thought  she 
to  'herself.  "  They,  no  doubt,  love  and 
worship  the  same  God  that  I  do/'  And 
she  now  felt  less  inclined  to  slip  away. 

By  way  of  putting  the  child  more  at 
her  ease,  the  lady  took  up  her  knitting, 
and  began  to  ask  her  about  it ;  and  Kitty, 
being  communicative,  gave  her  the  whole 
account  of  their  misfortunes, — of  her  bro- 
ther's and  sister's  death,  of  her  own  ill- 
ness, and  of  her  efforts  to  help  her  parents 
and  to  do  good. 

"I  had  almost  given  up  the  hope  of  ever 
being  rich  enough  to  give  them  any  real 

5* 


54        KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES. 

help?  but  now  I  can,"  said  the  little  girl, 
joyfully,  as  she  looked  at  the  money. 

"You  shall  not  be  disappointed  in  your 
work,  either,"  said  the  lady,  who  was 
greatly  interested  in  Kitty's  story.  "  I 
approve  highly  of  your  attempt  to  do 
something.  I  always  help  those  whom  I 
find  endeavouring  to  help  themselves,  and 
I  will  buy  a  dozen  pairs  of  your  stockings 
as  soon  as  they  are  ready.  Here,"  said 
she,  taking  a  card  from  her  card-case  and 
writing  an  address  on  it  with  pencil,  "is 
the  name  of  the  place  where  we  shall  be 
staying  for  the  next  three  months,  and 
you  can  bring  the  stockings  when  they 
are  done.  They  are  to  be  a  child's  size; 
the  size  for  this  little  girl," — and  the  lady 
told  Kitty  to  measure  Mary's  foot.  "  My 
daughter  is  subject  to  rheumatism,  and 
these  will  do  to  draw  over  her  feet." 

By  this  time  the  carriage  was  put  to 


KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES.        55 

rights,  and  all  was  ready;  and  in  a/ew 
moments  the  carriage  and  people  were  out 
of  sight,  and  Kitty  Bulwer  remained  by  the 
roadside,  almost  fancying  that  all  that  had 
just  passed  was  a  dream. 

People  don't  find  bank-notes  in  their 
hands  when  they  have  been  dreaming  of 
them,  and  there  was  no  denying  that  there 
they  were  in  Kitty's  hands:  so  she  made 
the  best  of  her  way  home.  As  she  went 
along  the  road,  she  had  some  sore  tempta- 
tions about  the  money.  Half  of  it  seemed 
to  be  a  great  deal  to  give  away,  especially 
for  one  in  her  circumstances  and  while 
her  dear  parents  were  in  want  of  so  many 
things;  and  it  was  suggested  to  her  mind 
that  if  she  gave  a  quarter  it  would  do  very 
well,  especially  as  it  would  be  a  great 
deal  more  than  many  of  the  neighbours 
gave.  But  Kitty  held  firm,  and,  after 
many  arguments,  and,  indeed,  no  small 


56        KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES. 

contention  within  herself,,  she  determined 
that  one-half  should  be  given  away. 

"Is  it,"  said  she  to  herself,  "because 
God  has  blessed  me  above  all  expectation 
that  I  should  draw  back?  I  thought  to 
have  made  a  few  .cents,  and  then  He 
should  have  had  the  half;  and  now  that 
I  have  so  much,  shall  I  do  less  in  pro- 
portion? No,"  said  she.  "Half  shall 
go  to  do  good.  The  more  liberal  God  is 
to  us,  the  more  liberal  should  we  be  in 
our  gifts  to  him." 


KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES.        57 


CHAPTER  IV. 

E  story  of  Kitty's  wonderful  ad- 
venture was  soon  noised  abroad 
through  the  neighbourhood;  and 
every  one  except  Nancy  Sawyer 
rejoiced  at  her  prosperity.  Among  those 
who  rejoiced  most  was  good  Mrs.  Wilson. 
"You  remember,"  said  she,  "you  asked 
a  blessing  on  your  work,  Kitty ;  and  you 
have  received  it,  only  in  an  unexpected 
way.  All  our  blessings  do  not  come  on 
the  road  we  expect  them  to  travel ;  and 
this  one  has  come  a  roundabout  way. 
You  remember  that  it  is  written  that  '  all 
things  shall  work  together  for  good  to 
them  that  love  God;'  and  thus  has  it  been 


58        KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES. 

in  your  case.  If  your  socks  had  not  been 
cut,  and  if  you  had  not  thus  lost  your  ex- 
pected sale,  you  would  not  have  tried  to 
make  up  the  loss  by  going  to  the  hill.  So, 
what  you  thought  so  dreadfully  provoking 
has  really  turned  out  for  your  good." 

Kitty  Bulwer  saw  this,  and  she  recog- 
nized in  it  all  the  more  reason  why  she 
should  give  the  half  of  the  money  to  God's 
service:  indeed,  she  felt  she  could  have 
no  blessing  unless  she  did. 

"And  I  hear  you  have  an  order  for 
twelve  pair,"  said  Mrs.  Wilson.  "Well, 
that's  grand;  you'll  never  sell  more  than 
I  wish  you  to  do ;  and  if  I  can  give  you 
any  help,  'I  will." 

Kitty  Bulwer  worked  away  at  her 
coarse  stockings,  and  was  getting  well 
forward  with  the  execution  of  her  order, 
when  a  person  rode  up  to  her  cottage-door. 
She  soon  knew  whence  he  came,  for  he 


KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES.        59 

had  the  same  clothes  on  as  those  she  saw 
on  the  man  who  drove  the  carriage.  The 
man  brought  a  note  to  Kitty,  saying  that 
the  lady  wished  her  to  come  at  once  to  the 
place  where  she  was  staying,  and  to  bring 
with  her  as  many  of  the  stockings  as  she 
had  finished.  He  had  instructions,  also, 
to  give  her  money  to  pay  her  fare  by  the 
stage-coach. 

When  Kitty  Bulwer  arrived,  she  was 
taken  to  a  small -room,  where  she  saw,  laid 
upon  a  sofa,  the  same  feeble  girl  she  had 
seen  on  the  roadside, — little  Mary.  She 
was  suffering  from  rheumatism,  and  now 
she  tried  to  raise  herself  on  the  couch. 
11  We  sent  for  you,"  said  she,  "to  know  if 
you  would  teach  me  to  knit.  I  have  been 
thinking,  too,  a  great  deal  about  your 
having  been  the  means  of  saving  our 
lives;  and,  as  I  wish  to  try  and  learn  to 
knit,  I  should  rather  learn  from  you  than 


60        KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES. 

any  one  else.  Mother  will  give  you  plenty 
of  money  if  you  will  teach  me :  only,  I  am 
very  slow  at  learning,  and  you  must  have 
a  great  deal  of  patience  with  me.  Have 
you  plenty  of  patience?" 

Kitty  said,  "  I'll  be  very  glad  to  teach 
you  to  knit;  and  I  hope  I  can  be  patient, 
for  it  took  me  a  long  time  before  I  was 
handy  enough  to  do  any  knitting,  after  my 
hands  got  bad." 

"Perhaps  it  will  take  me  ever  so  many 
months,"  said  the  sick  girl. 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind  how  long:  only" — 
and  here  Kitty  burst  into  tears;  the 
thought  of  her  father  and  mother  crossed 
her  mind, — "only  I  should  not  like  to  be 
so  long  away  from  my  parents." 

"I'll  take  care  of  your  parents,"  said  a 
voice  from  the  door,  and  at  that  moment 
Mary's  mother  entered,  "if  you  only  re- 
main with  my  daughter  until  she  has 


KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES.        61 

learned."  Then  and  there  was  the  whole 
matter  settled,  and  before  long  Mary  let 
Kitty  into  her  whole  secret.  ''You  see 
that  I  am  now  laid  here ;  and  although  I 
can  often  run  about,  still  I  am  often  laid 
for  whole  weeks  upon  nry  sofa,  or  perhaps 
in  bed,  and  then  my  time  does  not  always 
pass  very  quickly,  and  I  often  keep  think- 
ing that  I  should  be  much  happier  if  I  had 
something  to  do, — especially  if  it  were 
something  that  would  help  to  make  other 
people  happy:  so  I  have  made  up  my 
mind  to  learn  to  knit.  And  when  I  have 
learned  to  knit,  I  mean  to  make  a  great 
many  stockings  for  the  poor.  We  have  a 
great  many  poor  people  in  our  neighbour- 
hood; and  it  will  be  a  great  pleasure  to 
keep  them  warm  in  the  winter." 

What  a  delightful  prospect  now  opened 
out  before  Kitty  Bulwer !  And  it  became 
much  more  delightful  when  her  parents 


62        KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES. 

gave  their  assent  to  it,  and  it  was  settled 
that  Kitty  Bulwer  should  live  as  knitting- 
teacher  to  Mary.  "All  the  waiting  I 
want,"  said  the  lady  to  Kitty's  mother, 
"  can  be  easily  done  by  your  daughter;  and 
if  she  reads  to  my  child,  and  they  knit 
together,  and  she  conduces  to  her  happiness, 
that  is  all  I  desire."  And  thus  Kitty  be- 
came installed  for  a  while  as  an  inmate  of 
the  lady's  family ;  and  when  the  lady  and 
her  daughter  went  to  their  own  home, 
they  took  Kitty  with  them.  She  travelled 
in  the  very  same  carriage  which  she  had 
been  the  means  of  saving  from  destruction 
on  the  precipitous  hill  near  her  father's 
cottage ! 

As  weeks  passed  on,  Kitty  Bulwer  be- 
came more  and  more  acceptable  to  Mary, 
so  that  she  could  not  bear  to  part  with  her; 
and  when  a  situation  became  vacant,  which 
suited  farmer  Bulwer,  the  lady  gave  it  to 


KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES.        63 

him,  and  he  came  and  lived  near  his 
daughter  in  something  like  his  former 
house  again. 

Years  rolled  on,  and  Kitty  Bulwer  had 
grown  into  a  strong  woman,  when  one  day, 
as  she  was  returning  to  her  home,  in  the 
frosty  twilight  of  Christmas,  she  was  ac- 
costed by  a  gipsy -like-looking  woman, 
with  a  wretched-looking  child  upon  her 
back,  and  two  more  following  her,  one 
holding  her  by  her  ragged  petficoat,  and 
another  carrying  a  bag  intended  for  pota- 
toes, or  meal,  or  any  scraps  that  could  be 
got.  Kitty  was  very  respectably,  though 
not  finely,  dressed,  and  the  woman  took 
her  for  one  of  the  ladies  of  the  house. 
"Oh,  listen  to  me,  my  lady,"  said  she, 
"and  give  me  something  to  cover  my  feet; 
they're  frost-bitten,  and  I  feel  as  though 
my  toes  would  drop  off;  and  the  children 


64         KITTY'S  KXITTIXG-XEEDLES. 

are  as  bad.  My  husband  is  dead, — ay,  he 
died  in  a  ditch,  of  cold,  not  a  month  ago; 
and  I'll  soon  go  too." 

"If  you'll  go  up  to  the  yard,  I'll  relieve 
you,"  said  Kitty.  "I'll  go  on  and  get 
something  warm  for  you."  And,  hastening 
home,  she  took  out  the  last  pair  of  socks 
she  had  knitted,  and  got  some  warm  soup 
from  the  kitchen.  The  woman  was  at  the 
door,  and  when  she  and  the  children  had 
devoured  the  soup,  she  stretched  out  her 
hand  eagerly  for  the  stockings;  but  she 
no  sooner  saw  them  plainly  than  she  fixed 
her  eyes  on  Kitty,  and  then,  with  a  loud 
scream,  she  fell  fainting  on  the  ground. 
When  the  strange  woman  came  to  herself, 
she  thrust  out  her  hand  violently,  as  though 
she  were  pushing  some  one  from  her,  and 
cried  out  Kitty's  name  several  times. 

Who  or  what  could  she  be,  and  whence 
had  she  come? 


KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES.        65 

Kitty  ventured  close  to  her,  while  one 
of  the  servants  threw  a  light  strong  upon 
her  face ;  and  in  a  moment  the  truth  was 
revealed.  The  wretched  woman  was 
Nancy  Sawyer!  It  was  too  much,  even 
for  her,  to  receive  the  stockings  from  one 
whom  she  had  so  wronged  in  former  times ; 
— to  be  given  a  pair  by  the  very  one 
whose  work  of  the  very  same  kind  she 
had  maliciously  destroyed  was  more  than 
she  could  bear. 

Kitty  begged  everybody  to  withdraw, 
and  leave  the  strange  woman  with  her; 
and  in  the  course  of  a  short  time  she 
heard  from  her  her  whole  story.  She  con- 
fessed to  having  cut  the  stockings;  and 
ever  since  she  had  done  that  malicious 
deed  she  had  enjoyed  no  peace.  Things 
seemed  always  to  go  wrong  with  her,  and 
her  whole  history  was  a  melancholy  one. 
In  spite  of  her  father's  disapproval,  Nancy 

E  6* 


66        KITTY'S  KNITTING-NEEDLES. 

had  married  a  travelling  tinker  and  knife- 
grinder,  and  had  wandered  about,  half 
starved,  over  the  country,  for  many  a  long 
day. 

A  comfortable  place  was  provided,  by 
the  lady's  direction,  for  the  poor  creature, 
and  Kitty  Bulwer  intended  on  the  follow- 
ing morning  to  give  her  some  substantial 
help ;  but  when  morning  came  the  vagrant 
was  not  to  be  found.  She  had  gone  away 
before  the  early  dawn.  No  more  was  ever 
heard  of  Nancy  Sawyer;  but  a  person 
answering  her  description  was  convicted 
of  theft  and  sentenced  to  severe  punish- 
ment; but  Kitty  Bulwer  lived  on,  honoured 
and  respected,  finding  out,  more  and  more 
every  day,  how  all  things  work  together 
for  good  to  them  who  love  God. 


THE  ONE  MOSS-ROSE. 


67 


©nt  fRoss  Hosr.— Jrontispint. 


"Pray  dan't  eat  it ;  'tis  oar  only  rose."        p.  73. 


THE 


ONE  MOSS-KOSE. 


DOBBIN  occupied 

a  humble  cottage;  but,  al- 
though humble,  it  was  always 
VC*  kept  neat  and  clean,  and  was 
a  pattern  of  every  thing  that  a  poor  man's 
dwelling  should  be.  The  white-washed 
walls,  the  smoothly  raked  gravel  walk,  and 
the  sanded  floor,  were  so  many  evidences 
that  Leonard  was  a  careful  and  a  thrifty 
man ;  and  while  some  of  his  poorer  neigh- 
bours laughed,  and  asked  where  was  the 
use  of  being  so  precise,  they  could  not 
help  respecting  Dobbin,  nevertheless. 
The  great,  and,  indeed,  almost  the  only^ 

69      , 


70  THE    ONE   MOSS-KOSE. 

pleasure  upon  which  the  labourer  allowed 
himself  to  spend  any  time,  was  the  little 
flower-garden  in  front  of  the  house.  This 
garden  was  Dobbin's  pride;  and  the  pride 
of  the  garden  was  a  moss-rose-tree,  which 
was  the  peculiar  treasure  of  the  labourer's 
little,  crippled  son,  who  watched  it  from 
the  window,  and,  whenever  he  was  well 
enough,  crept  out  to  water  it  and  pick  off 
any  stray  worm  which  had  ventured  to 
climb  up  upon  its  rich  brown  leaves.  No 
mother  ever  watched  her  little  infant  with 
more  eager  eyes  than  Jacob  Dobbin  did  his 
favourite  rose ;  and  no  doubt  he  thought  all 
the  more  of  it  because  he  had  so  few  plea- 
sures in  life.  Jacob  Dobbin  had  no  fine 
toys ;  he  could  not  take  any  long  walks,  nor 
could  he  play  at  any  games :  therefore  his 
rose-tree  was  all  the  more  precious.  In 
fact,  in  his  estimation  there  was  nothing 
to  compare  with  it  in  the  wide  world. 


THE    ONE   MOSS-EOSE.  71 

There  was  a  great  difference  between 
poor  Jacob's  lot  and  that  of  the  son  of 
Leonard  Dobbin's  landlord.  James  Cour- 
tenay  had  plenty  of  toys.  He  had  also  a 
pony,  and  a  servant  to  attend  him  when 
he  rode  out.  When  summer  came,  he 
used  often  to  go  out  sailing  in  his  yacht; 
and  there  was  scarce  any  thirfg  on  which  he 
set  his  heart  which  he  was  not  able  to  get. 

With  all  these  pleasures,  James  Cour- 
tenay  was  not,  however,  so  happy  as  poor 
Jacob  Dobbin.  Jacob,  though  crippled, 
was  contented :  his  few  pleasures  were 
thoroughly  enjoyed,  and  "  a  contented 
mind  is  a  continual  feast;"  whereas  James 
was  spoiled  by  the  abundance  of  good 
things  at  his  command.  He  was  like  the 
full  man  that  loatheth  the  honey-comb; 
and  he  often  caused  no  little  trouble  to 
Ids  friends,  and,  indeed,  to  himself  also, 
by  the  evil  tempers  he  displayed. 


72  THE    ONE    MOSS-ROSE. 

Many  a  time  did  James  Courtenay's 
old  nurse,  who  was  a  God-fearing  woman, 
point  out  to  him  that  the  world  was  not 
made  for  him  alone;  that  there  were 
many  others  to  be  considered  as  well  as 
himself;  and  that  although  God  had  given 
him  many  things,  still  he  was  not  of  a 
bit  more  importance  in  His  sight  than 
others  who  had  not  so  much.  To  all  this 
he  would  never  have  listened  from  any 
one  else;  but  old  Aggie  had  reared  him, 
and  whenever  he  was  laid  by  with  any 
illness,  or  was  in  any  particular  trouble, 
she  was  the  one  to  whom  he  always  fled. 

"  God  sometimes  teaches  people  very 
bitter  lessons,"  said  old  Aggie,  one  day, 
when  James  Courtenay  had  been  speaking 
contemptuously  to  one  of  the  servants; 
"  and  take  care,  Master  James,  lest  you 
soon  have  to  learn  one." 

Jacob  Dobbin  had  been  for  some  time 


THE   ONE   MOSS-EOSE.  73 

worse  than  usual, — his  cough  was  more 
severe,  and  his  lame  leg  more  painful, — 
when  his  father  and  he  held  a  long  .con- 
versation by  the  side  of  their  scanty  fire. 

Leonard  had  made  the  tea  in  the  old 
black  pot  with  the  broken  spout,  and 
Jacob  lay  on  his  little  bench,  close  up  to 
the  table. 

"Father,"  said  Jacob,  "I  saw  Master 
James  ride  by  on  his  gray  pony  to-day, 
and  just  then  my  leg  gave  me  a  sore 
pinch,  and  I  thought,  How  strange  it  is 
that  there  should  be  such  a  difference  be- 
tween people!  He's  almost  always  gal- 
loping about,  and  I'm  almost  always  in 
bed." 

"  Poor  folks,"  answered  Jacob's  father, 
"are  not  always  so  badly  off  as  they  sup- 
pose. Little  things  make  them  happy, 
and  little  things  often  make  great  folks 
chappy.  And  let  us  remember,  Jacob, 


74  THE    ONE    MOSS-ROSE. 

that,  whatever  may  be  our  lot  in  life,  we 
all  have  an  opportunity  of  pleasing  God, 
and  so  obtaining  the  great  reward  which 
of  his  mercy,  and  for  Christ's  sake,  he 
will  give  to  all  those  who  please  him  by 
patient  continuance  in  well-doing.  The 
squire  cannot  please  God  any  more  than 
you." 

"  Oh,"  said  Jacob,  "  the  squire  can 
spend  more  money  than  I  can.  He  can 
give  to  the  poor,  and  do  a  great  many 
things  that  I  cannot.  All  I  can  do  is  to 
lie  still  on  my  bed,  and  keep  myself  from 
using  bad  words  when  the  pain  is  very 
bad." 

"  Exactly  so,  my  son,"  answered  Leon- 
ard Dobbin;  "but  remember  that  patience 
is  of  great  price  in  the  sight  of  God ;  and 
he  is  very  often  glorified  in  the  sufferings 
of  his  people." 

"The  way  I  should  like  to  glorify  God," 


THE   ONE    MOSS-EOSE.  75 

said  Jacob,  "would  be  by  going  about 
doing  good,  and  letting  people  see  me 
do  it,  so  that  I  could  glorify  Him  before 
them,  and  not  in  my  dull  little  corner 
here." 

"Ah,  Jacob,  my  son,"  replied  old  Leon- 
ard Dobbin,  "you  may  glorify  God  more 
than  you  suppose  up  in  your  dull  little 
corner.  What  should  you  think  of  glorify- 
ing Him  before  angels  and  evil  spirits?" 

"Ah,  that  would  be  glorious  indeed!" 
cried  Jacob. 

"Spirits,  good  and  bad,  are  ever  around 
us,"  said  his  father,  "  and  they  are  watch- 
ing us ;  and  how  much  must  God  be  glori- 
fied before  them  when  they  see  his  grace 
able  to  make  a  sufferer  patient  and  gentle, 
and  when  they  know  that  he  is  bearing 
every  thing  for  Christ's  sake !  When  a 
Christian  is  injured,  and  avenges  not 
himself;  when  he  is  evil-spoken  of,  and 


76  THE   ONE   MOSS-KOSE. 

answers  not  again;  when  he  is  pro- 
voked, yet  continues  long-suffering :  then 
the  spirits,  good  and  bad,  witness  these 
things,  and  they  must  glorify  the  grace 
of  God." 

That  night  Jacob  Dobbin  seemed  to 
have  quite  a  new  light  thrown  upon  his 
life.  "Perhaps,"  said  he  to  himself,  as 
he  lay  upon  the  little  bench,  "  I'm  afflicted 
in  order  that  I  may  glorify  God.  I  sup- 
pose he  is  glorified  by  his  people  bearing 
different  kinds  of  pain.  -  Perhaps  some 
other  boy  is  glorifying  him  with  a  crip- 
pled hand,  while  I  am  doing  it  with  my 
poor  crippled  leg;  but  I  should  like  to  be 
able  even  to  bear  persecution  from  man  for 
Christ's  sake,  like  the  martyrs  in  father's 
old  book.  As  I  have  strength  to  bear 
such  dreadful  pain  in  my  poor  leg,  I  dare 
say  I  might  bear  a  great  deal  of  suffering 
of  other  kinds." 


THE    ONE    MOSS-EOSE.  77 

The  spring,  with  its  sunshine  and 
showers,  passed  away,  and  the  beautiful 
summer  came,  and  Jacob  Dobbin  was  able 
to  sit  at  the  cottage-door,  breathing  the 
pure  country  air,  and  admiring  what  was 
to  him  the  loveliest  object  in  nature, — 
namely,  one  rich,  swelling  bud  upon  his 
moss-rose-tree.  There  was  but  one  bud 
this  year  upon  the  tree, — the  frosts  and 
keen  spring  winds  had  nipped  all  the  rest ; 
and  this  one  was  now  bursting  into  beauty, 
and  it  was  doubly  dear  to  Jacob,  because 
it  was  left  alone. 

Jacob  passed  much  of  his  time  at  the 
cottage-door,  dividing  his  admiration  be- 
tween the  one  moss-rose  and  the  beautiful 
white  fleecy  clouds  which  used  to  sail  in 
majestic  grandeur  over  his  head;  and 
often  he  used  to  be  day-dreaming  for 
hours,  about  the  white  robes  of  all  who 
suffered  for  their  Lord. 

7* 


78  THE    ONE   MOSS-ROSE. 

While  thus  engaged,  one  day,  Master 
James  Courtenay  came  running  along,  and 
his  eyes  fell  upon  Jacob's  rose. 

"  Halloo!"  -cried  he,  with  delight;  "a 
moss-rose!  Ha!  ha! — the  gardener  said 
we  had  not  even  one  blown  in  our  garden; 
but  here's  a  rare  beauty!"*  And  in  a 
moment  he  had  bounded  over  the  little 
garden-gate,  and  stood  beside  the  rose- 
bush. In  another  instant  his  knife  was 

* 

out  of  his  pocket,  and  his  hand  was  ap- 
proaching the  tree. 

"Stop!  stop!"  cried  Jacob  Dobbin; 
"  pray  don't  cut  it : — 'tis  our  only  rose. 
I've  watched  it  I  don't  know  how  long, 
and  'tisn't  quite  come  out  yet."  And 
Jacob  made  an  effort  to  get  from  his  seat 
to  the  tree;  but,  before  the  poor  little 
cripple  could  well  rise  from  his  seat,  the 
young  squire's  knife  was  through  the 
stem,  and,  with  a  loud  laugh,  he  jumped 


THE   ONE    MOSS-EOSE.  79 

over  the  garden-fence,  and  was  soon  lost 
to  sight! 

The  excitement  of  this  scene  had  a 
lamentable  effect  upon  poor  Jacob  Dob- 
bin. When  he  found  his  one  moss-rose 
gone,  he  burst  into  a  violent  fit  of  sob- 
bing; and  a  neighbour,  passing  that  way 
a  little  time  after,  found  him  lying  sense- 
less upon  the  ground.  The  neighbouring 
doctor  was  sent  for,  and  he  gave  it  as  his 
opinion  that  Jacob  could  never  get  over 
this  attack.  He  was  completely  pros- 
trated. The  excitement  was  too  much 
for  him. 

"Had  it  been  an  ordinary  case,"  said 
the  doctor,  "  I  should  not  have  appre- 
hended a  fatal  result;  but,  under  present 
circumstances,  I  fear  the  very  worst.  Poor 
Jacob  has  not  strength, to  bear  up  against 
this  loss  of  blood." 

For  many  days  Jacob  Dobbin  lay  in 


80  THE    ONE    MOSS-EOSE. 

a  darkened  room,  and  many  were  the 
thoughts  of  the  other  world  which  came 
into  his  mind;  among  them  were  some 
connected  with  the  holy  martyrs. 

"  Father,"  said  he,  one  day,  "  I  have 
been  learning  a  lesson  about  the  martyrs. 
I  see  now  how  unfit  I  was  to  be  tried  as 
they  were.  If  I  could  not  bear  the  loss 
of  one  moss-rose  patiently  for  Christ's 
sake,  how  could  I  have  borne  fire  and 
prison,  and  such-like  things?" 

"Ah,  Jacob,"  said  the  old  man,  "  'tis 
by  little  common  trials,  such  as  we  meet 
with  every  day,  that,  by  God's  grace, 
such  a  spirit  is  reared  within  us  as  was  in 
the  hearts  of  the  martyrs  of  olden  time. 
Tell  me,  can  you  forgive  James  Courte- 
nay?" 

"  The  blessed  Jesus  forgave  his  per- 
secutors," whispered  Jacob,  faintly;  "and 
the  martyrs  prayed  for  those  who  tor- 


THE    ONE    MOSS-ROSE.  81 

merited  them:  in  this,  at  least,  I  may  be 
like  them.  Father,  I  do  forgive  him. 
And,  father,"  said  Jacob,  as  he  opened 
his  eyes  after  an  interval  of  a  few 
minutes'  rest,  "  get  your  spade,  and  dig 
up  the  tree,  and  take  it  to  him,  with  my 
forgiveness.  Don't  wait  till  I'm  dead, 
father;  I  should  not  mind  parting  with  it 
then.  But  I  love  the  tree,  and  I  wish  to 
give  it  to  him  now ;  and  if  you  dig  up  a 
very  large  clod  of  earth  with  it,  he  can 
have  it  planted  in  his  garden  at  once; 

aijd " 

But  poor  Jacob  could  say  no  more.  He 
fell  back  quite  exhausted,  and  he  never 
returned  to  the  subject  again;  for  he 
gradually  sank,  and,  in  a  day  or  two 
afterwards,  died. 

When  old  Leonard  Dobbin  appeared  at 
the  squire's  house  with  his  wheelbarrow 


82  THE    ONE    MOSS-KOSE. 

containing  the  rose-tree  and  its  clod  of 
earth,  there  was  no  small  stir  among  the 
servants.  Some  said  it  was  impudence  in 
him  to  come  troubling  the  family  about 
his  trumpery  rose,  bringing  the  tree,  as 
if  he  wanted  to  lay  Jacob  Dobbin's  blood 
at  their  young  master's  door;  others  shook 
their  heads,  and  said  it  was  a  bad  busi- 
ness, and  that  that  tree  was  an  ugly 
present,  and  one  that  they  should  not 
care  to  have;  and  as  to  old  Aggie,  she 
held  her  tongue,  but  prayed  that  the 
child  she  had  reared  so  anxiously  might 
yet  become  changed,  and  grow  up  an 
altered  man. 

Old  Leonard  could  not  get  audience  of 
the  squire  or  of  Master  James;  but  the 
gardener,  wha  was  in  the  servants'  hall 
when  he  arrived  with  his  rose,  told  him 
to  wheel  it  along,  and  he  would  plant  it 
in  Master  James's  garden,  and  look  after 


THE    ONE    MOSS-EOSE.  83 

it  until  it  bloomed  again ;  and  there  the 
rose-bush  finally  took  up  its  abode. 

Meanwhile,  young  Courtenay  behaved 
worse  and  worse.  He  respected  no  one's 
property  if  he  fancied  it  himself;  and  all 
the  tenants  and  domestics  were  afraid  of 
imposing  any  check  upon  his  evil  ways. 
He  was  not,  however,  without  some 
stings  of  conscience.  He  knew  that  Ja- 
cob Dobbin  was  dead;  he  had  even  seen 
his  newly-made  grave  in  the  church-yard 
on  Sunday;  and  he  could  not  blot  from 
his  memory  the  distress  of  poor  Jacob 
when  last  he  saw  him  alive.  Moreover, 
some  of  the  whisperings  of  the  neighbour- 
hood reached  his  ears ;  and  all  these  things 
made  him  feel  far  from  comfortable. 

As  day  after  day  passed  by,  James 
Courtenay  felt  more  and  more  miserable. 
A  settled  sadness  took  possession  of  his 
mind,  varied  by  fits  of  restlessness  and 


04  THE    ONE    MOSS-ROSE. 

passion,  and  he  felt  that  there  was  some- 
thing hanging  over  him,  although  he  could 
not  exactly  tell  what.  It  was  evident, 
from  the  whispers  which  had  reached  his 
ears,  that  there  had  been  some  dreadful 
circumstances  connected  with  poor  Jacob 
Dobbin's  death;  but  he  feared  to  inquire: 
and  so  day  after  day  passed  in  wretched- 
ness, and  there  seemed  little  chance  of 
matters  getting  any  better. 

At  length  a  change  came  in  a  very  un- 
expected way.  As  James  Courtenay  was 
riding  along,  one  day,  he  saw  a  pair  of 
bantam  fowls  picking  up  the  corn  about 
a  stack  in  one  of  the  tenants'  yards.  The 
bantams  were  very  handsome,  and  he  felt 
a  great  desire  to  possess  them.  So  he  dis- 
mounted, and,  seeing  the  farmer's  son 

o 

hard  by,  he  asked  him  for  how  much  he 
would  sell  the  fowls. 

11  They're  not  for  sale,"  said  the  boy. 


THE   ONE    MOSS-EOSE.  85 

4 'They  belong  to  my  young  sister,  and 
she  wouldn't  sell  those  bantams  for  any 
money :  there  isn't  a  cock  to  match  that 
one  in  all  the  country  round." 

"I'll  give  five  dollars  for  them,"  said 
James  Courtenay. 

"  Ten  wouldn't  buy  'em,"  answered  Jim 
Meyers. 

"  Then  I'll  take  them,  and  no  thanks," 
said  he;  and,  so  saying,  he  flung  Jim 
Meyers  a  five-dollar  note,  and  began  to 
drive  the  bantams  into  a  corner  of  the 
yard. 

"I  say,"  cried  Jim,  "leave  off  hunt- 
ing those  bantams,  or  I  must  call  my 
father." 

"Your  father!"  cried  young  Courtenay ; 
"  and  pray  who's  your  father?  You're  a 
pretty  fellow  to  talk  about  a  father.  Take 
care  I  don't  bring  my  father  to  you."  And, 
having  said  this,  he  made  a  dart  at  the 


86  THE   ONE   MOSS-ROSE. 

cock  bantam,  which  he  had  by  this  time 
driven  into  a  corner. 

"Look  here,"  said  Jim,  doubling  his 
fists.  "You  did  a  bad  job  by  Jacob  Dob- 
bin. You  were  the  death  of  him;  and  I 
won't  have  you  the  death  of  my  little 
sister,  by,  may-be,  her  fretting  herself  to 
death  about  these  birds.  So  you  look 
out;  and  if  you  touch  one  of  these  birds, 
come  what  will  of  it,  I'll  touch  you." 

"Who  ever  said  I  did  Jacob  Dobbin 
any  harm?"  asked  James  Courtenay,  his 
face  as  pale  as  ashes.  "  I  never  laid  a 
finger  upon  the  brat." 

"  Brat  or  no  brat,"  answered  Jim  Mey- 
ers, "  you  were  the  death  of  him.  You 
made  him  sick;  and  I  say  you  murdered 
him." 

This  was  too  much  for  James  Courtenay 
to  bear;  so,  without  more  ado,  he  flew 
upon  Jim  Meyers,  intending  to  pommel 


THE    ONE    MOSS-ROSE.  87 

him  well ;  but  Jim  was  not  to  be  so  easily 
pommelled.  He  stood  upon  bis  guard, 
and  soon  dealt  bis  antagonist  sucb  a  blow 
between  tbe  eyes  that  be  bad  no  more 
power  to  fight. 

''•Vengeance!  vengeance!"  cried  tbe 
angry  youth.  "  I'll  make  you  pay  dearly 
for  this."  And,  slinking  away,  he  got 
upon  his  pony  and  rode  rapidly  home. 

It  may  be  easily  imagined  that  on  the 
young  squire's  arrival  at  home  in  so  mel- 
ancholy a  plight  the  whole  place  was  in 
terrible  confusion.  Servants  ran  hither 
and  thither ;  old  Aggie  went  off  for  some 
ice,  and  some  one  ran  for  the  doctor,  and 
the  house  was  turned  upside-down. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this,  James  Cour- 
tenay's  father  came  home;  and  great  in- 
deed was  his  rage  when  he  heard  that  his 
son  had  received  this  treatment  from  the 
hands  of  a  son  of  one  of  his  own  tenants ; 


83  THE    OXE    MOSS-ROSE. 

and  his  rage  became  greater  and  greater 
as  the  beaten  boy  gave  a  very  untrue 
account  of  what  had  occurred. 

"I  was  admiring  a  bantam  of  Meyers's," 
said  he  to  his  father,  "  and  his  son  flew 
upon  me  like  a  tiger,  and  hit  me  between 
the  eyes." 

Squire  Courtenay  determined  to  move  in 
the  matter  at  once:  so  he  sent  a  servant 
to  summon  the  Meyers,  both  father  and  son. 

"  I'll  make  Meyers  pay  dearly  for  this," 
said  the  squire.  "His  lease  is  out  in  a 
few  months,  and  I  shall  not  renew  it;  and, 
besides,  I'll  prosecute  his  son." 

All  this  delighted  young  Courtenay, 
and  every  minute  seemed  to  him  to  be  an 
hour  until  the  arrival  of  the  two  Meyers, 
upon  whom  ample  vengeance  was  to  be 
wreaked ;  and  the  pain  of  his  eyes  seemed 
as  nothing,  so  sweet  was  the  prospect  of 
revenge. 


THE    ONE   MOSS-EOSE.  89 

In  the  course  of  an  hour  they  arrived, 
and,  with  much  fear  and  trembling,  were 
shown  into  their  landlord's  presence. 

"Meyers!"  cried  the  squire,  in  great 
wrath,  "  your  lease  will  soon  expire,  and 
will  not  be  renewed.  And  as  to  that 
young  scoundrel,  your  son,  I'll  have  him 
before  the  court,  and  I'll  see  whether  I 
can't  make  him  pay  for  such  tricks  as 
these." 

"What  have  I  done,"  asked  old  Mey- 
ers, "to  deserve  being  turned  adrift?  If 
your  honour  will  hear  the  whole  of  the 
story  about  this  business,  I  don't  believe 
you'll  turn  me  out  on  the  world,  after 
being  on  your  land  nigh  forty  years." 

"  'Know!'  I  know  enough  about  it. 
Your  son  dared  to  lift  a  hand  against 
mine,  and — and  I'll  have  no  tenant  on 
my  estate  that  will  venture  upon  such  an 
outrage  as  that.  It  was  a  great  favour  to 


90  THE    ONE    MOSS-KOSE. 

you  for  my  son  to  admire  your  bantams, 
or  any  thing  on  your  farm,  without  his 
being  subjected  to  such  an  assault." 

"  I  don't  want  to  excuse  my  boy,"  said 
old  Meyers,  "  for  what  he  did  to  the 
young  squire, — and  right  sorry  I  am  that 
he  ever  lifted  a  hand  to  him ;  but,  begging 
your  honour's  pardon,  the  young  squire 
provoked  him  to  it,  and  he  did  a  great 
deal  more  than  just  admire  my  little  girl's 
bantams.  Come,  Jim,  speak  up,  and  tell 
the  squire  all  about  it." 

"Ay,  speak  up,  and  excuse  yourself,  you 
young  rascal,  if  you  can,"  said  the  angry 
squire;  "and,  if  you  can't,  you'll  soon 
find  your  way  into  the  inside  of  a  prison 
for  this." 

"  I  will   speak  up,  then,  your  honour, 
since  you  wish  it,"  said  Jim  Meyers;  "and 
I'll  tell  the  whole  truth  of  how  this  came  " 
about.''     And   then   he    told   the    whole 


THE    ONE   MOSS-EOSE.  91 

story  of  the  young  squire  having  wanted 
to  buy  the  bantams,  and,  on  his  not  being 
permitted  to  do  so,  of  his  endeavouring 
to  take  them  by  force.  "And  when  I 
wouldn't  let  him  carry  away  my  sister's 
birds,  he  flew  on  me  like  a  game-cock, 
and,  in  self-defence,  I  struck  him  as  I  did." 

"You  said  I  murdered  Jacob  Dobbin," 
interrupted  James  Courtenay. 

"Yes,  I  did,"  answered  Jim  Meyers; 
"  and  all  the  country  says  the  same,  and 
I  only  say  what  every  one  else  says.  Ask 
anybody  within  five  miles  of  this,  and,  if 
they're  not  afraid  to  speak  up,  they'll  tell 
just  the  same  tale  that  I  do." 

"Murdered  Jacob  Dobbin!"  ejaculated 
the  squire,  in  astonishment;  "I  don't  be- 
lieve my  son  ever  lifted  a  hand  to  him : 
— you  mean  the  crippled  boy  that  died 
some  time  ago?" 

"Yes;  he  means  him,"  said  Jim  Mey- 


92  THE    ONE   MOSS-ROSE. 

ers's  father.  "And  'tis  true  what  the  lad 
says,  that  folks  for  five  miles  round  lay 
his  death  at  the  young  squire's  door,  and 
say  that  a  day  will  come  when  his  blood 
will  be  required  of  him." 

"Why,  what  happened?"  asked  the 
squire,  beginning  almost  to  tremble  in  his 
chair;  for  he  knew  that  his  son  had  a 
very  violent  temper  and  was  of  a  very 
arbitrary  disposition;  and  he  felt,  more- 
over, within  the  depths  of  his  own  heart, 
that  he  had  not  checked  him  as  he  should. 
"  What  is  the  whole  truth  about  this 
matter?" 

"  Come,  speak  up,  Jim,"  said  old  Mey- 
ers. "You  were  poor  Jacob's  friend,  and 
you  know  most  about  it."  The  squire 
also  added  a  word,  encouraging  the  lad, 
who,  thus  emboldened,  took  courage,  and 
gave  the  squire  the  whole  history  of  poor 
Jacob  Dobbin's  one  moss-rose.  He  told 


THE   ONE    MOSS-EOSE.  93 

him  of  the  cripple's  love  for  the  plant, 
and  how  its  one  and  only  blossom  had 
been  rudely  snatched  away  by  the  young 
squire,  and  how  poor  Jacob  suffered,  and 
finally  died. 

"And  if  your  honour  wants  to  know 
what  became  of  the  tree,  you'll  find  it 
planted  in  the  young  squire's  garden, 
there,"  added  Jim,  "and  the  gardener 
will  tell  you  how  it  came  there." 

The  reader  will  easily  guess  what  must 
have  been  the  young  squire's  feelings  as 
he  heard  the  whole  of  this  tale.  Several 
times  did  he  endeavour  to  make  his  escape, 
under  the  plea  that  he  was  in  great  pain 
from  his  face,  and  once  or  twice  he  pre- 
tended to  faint  away ;  but  his  father,  who, 
though  proud  and  irreligious,  was  dis- 
posed to  justice,  determined  that  he  should 
remain  until  the  whole  matter  was  searched 
out. 


94  THE    ONE   MOSS-ROSE. 

When  Jim  Meyers's  story  was  ended, 
the  squire  bade  him  go  into  the  hall,  and 
his  father  also,  while  old  Dobbin  was  sent 
for;  and  as  to  James,  his  son,  he  told  him 
to  go  up  to  his  bedroom,  and  not  come 
down  until  he  was  called. 

Poor  old  Leonard  Dobbin  was  just  as 
much  frightened  as  Jim  Meyers  and  his 
father  had  been  at  the  summons  to  attend 
the  squire.  He  had  a  clear  conscience, 
however;  he  felt  that  he  had  not  wronged 
the  squire  in  any  thing;  and  so,  washing 
himself  and  putting  on 'his  best  Sunday 
clothes,  he  made  his  way  up  as  quickly  as 
he  could. 

"  Leonard  Dobbin,"  said  the  squire,  "  I 
charge  you,  upon  pain  of  my  worst  dis- 
pleasure, to  tell  me  all  you  know  about 
this  story  of  your  late  son's  moss-rose- 
tree.  You  need  not  be  afraid  to  tell  me 
all.  Your  only  cause  for  fear  will  be  the 


THE    ONE    MOSS-ROSE.  ^O 

holding  back  from  me  any  thing  connected 
with  the  matter." 

Leonard  went  through  the  whole  story 
just  as  Jim  Meyers  had  done:  only  he 
added  many  little  matters  which  made 
the  young  squire's  conduct  appear  even  in 
a  still  worse  light  than  it  had  done.  He 
was  able  to  add  all  about  his  poor  crippled 
boy's  forgiveness  of'  the  one  who  had 
wronged  him,  and  how  he  had  himself 
wheeled  the  rose-tree  up  to  the  squire's 
door,  and  how  it  was  now  to  be  found  in 
the  young  squire's  garden. 

"And,  if  I  may  make  so  bold  as  to 
speak,"  continued  old  Leonard,  "  nothing 
but  true  religion,  and  the  love  of  Christ, 
and  the  power  of  God's  Spirit  in  the 
heart,  will  ever  make  us  heartily  forgive 
our  enemies,  and  not  only  forgive  them, 
but  render  to  them  good  for  evil." 

When  Leonard  Dobbin  arrived,  James 


96  THE    ONE    MOSS-ROSE. 

Courtenay  had  been  sent  for,  and  had 
been  obliged,  with  crimsoned  cheeks,  to 
listen  to  this  story  of  the  poor  crippled 
boy's  feelings.  And  now  he  would  have 
given  all  the  roses  in  the  world,  if  they 
were  his,  to  restore  poor  Jacob  to  life,  or 
if  he  had  never  meddled  with  his  flowers; 
but  what  had  been  done  could  not  be 
undone,  and  no  one  could  awake  the  poor 
boy  from  his  sleep  in  the  silent  grave. 

"  Leonard  Dobbin,"  said  the  squire, 
after  he  had  sat  for  some  time  moodily, 
with  his  face  buried  in  his  hands,  "  this 
is  the  worst  blow  I  have  ever  had  in  life. 
I  would  give  thousands  of  hard  money, 
down  on  that  table,  this  very  moment, 
that  my  boy  had  never  touched  your  boy's 
rose.  But  what  is  done  cannot  be  undone. 
Go  home,  and  when  I've  thought  upon 
this  matter  I'll  see  you  again." 

"  Meyers,"  said  the  squire,  turning  to 


THE    ONE    MOSSTEOSE.  97 

the  other  tenant,  "  I  was  hasty  in  saying 
a  little  while  ago  that  I'd  turn  you  out 
of  your  farm.  You  need  have  no  fear 
about  the  matter.  Instead  of  turning  you 
out,  I'll  give  you  a  lease  of  it.  I  hope 
you  won't  talk  more  than  can  be  helped 
about  this  terrible  business." 

The  two  men  stood  talking  together  for 
a  while  before  they  left  the  grounds;  and 
old  Leonard  could  not  help  wiping  his 
eyes  with  the  sleeve  of  his  rough  coat,  as 
he  said  to  Meyers, — 

"Ah,  neighbour,  'tis  sore  work  having 
a  child  without  the  fear  of  God  before 
his  eyes.  I'd  rather  be  the  father  of  poor 
Jacob  in  his  grave,  than  of  the  young 
squire  up  yonder." 

Bitter,  indeed,  were  Squire  Courtenay's 
feelings  and  reflections  when  the  two  men 
had  left,  and,  his  son  having  been  ordered 
off  to  his  chamber,  he  found  himself  once 


98  THE    ONE   MOSS-EOSE. 

more  alone.  The  dusk  of  the  evening 
came  on;  but  he  did  not  seem  to  care 
for  food,  and,  in  truth,  his  melancholy 
thoughts  had  taken  all  appetite  away. 
At  last  he  went  to  the  window,  which 
looked  out  over  a  fine  park  and  a  long 
tract  of  valuable  property,  and  he  began 
to  think,  "  What  good  will  all  these  farms 
do  this  boy,  if  the  tenants  upon  them 
only  hate  him  and  curse  him?  Perhaps, 
with  all  this  property,  he  may  come  to 
some  bad  end,  and  bring  disgrace  upon 
his  family  and  himself." 

And  then  the  squire's  own  heart  began 
to  smite  him,  and  he  thought,  "Am  not 
I  to  blame  for  not  having  looked  more 
1  closely  after  him,  and  for  not  having 
corrected  him  whenever  he  went  wrong? 
I  must  do  something  at  once.  I  must 
send  him  away  from  this  place,  where 
almost  every  one  lets  him  do  as  he  likes, 


THE    ONE    MOSS-ROSE.  99 

until  he  learns  how  to  control  himself, 
at  least  so  far  as  not  to  do  injustice  to 
others." 

Meanwhile,  the  young  squire's  punish- 
ment had  begun.  When  left  to  the  soli- 
tude of  his  room,  after  having  heard  the 
whole  of  Leonard  Dobbin's  account  of 
poor  Jacob's  death,  a  great  horror  took 
possession  of  his  mind.  Many  were  the 
efforts  the  young  lad  made  to  shake  off 
the  gloomy  thoughts  which  came  trooping 
into  his  mind ;  but  every  thought  seemed 
to  have  a  hundred  hooks  by  which  it 
clung  to  the  memory,  so  that,  once  in  the 
mind,  it  could  not  be  got  rid  of  again.  At 
length  the  young  squire  lay  down  upon 
his  bed,  trembling  as  if  he  had  the  ague, 
and  realizing  how  true  are  the  words,  that 
"  our  sin  will  find  us  out,"  and  that  "the 
way  of  transgressors  is  hard." 

At  last,  to  his  great  relief,  the  handle 


100  THE    ONE   MOSS-ROSE. 

of  his  door  was   turned,  and  old  Aggie 
made  her  appearance. 

"  Oh,  Aggie,  Aggie,"  cried  James  Cour- 
tenay,  "  such  horrid  thoughts  as  I  have, 
and  such  dreadful  things  as  I  see !  Jim 
Meyers  said  I  murdered  Jacob  Dobbin ; 
and  I  believe  I  did,  though  I  didn't  intend 
to  do  it.  I  wish  I  had  never  gone  that 
way !  I  wish  I  had  never  seen  that  rose ! 
I  wish  there  had  never  been  a  rose  in  the  . 
world!  Oh,  dear!  My  head,  my  poor 
head !"  And  James  Courtenay  put  his  two 
hands  upon  the  two  sides  of  his  head,  as 
though  he  wanted  to  keep  it  from  splitting 
asunder. 

Aggie  saw  that  there  was  no  use  in 
speaking  while  James  Courtenay's  head 
was  in  such  a  state  as  this.  All  she 
could  do  was  to  help  him  into  bed,  and 
give  him  something  to  soothe  him.  Food 
te  put  from  him ;  but  drink  he  asked  for 


THE    ONE    MOSS-EOSE.  101 

again  and  again.  Water  was  all  he  craved ; 
but  Aggie  was  at  last  obliged  to  give  over, 
and  say  she  was  afraid  to  give  him  any 
more. 

James  Courtenay's  state  was  speedily 
made  known  to  his  father;  and  in  a  few 
minutes  from  old  Aggie's  conversation 
with  him,  a  messenger  was  on  his  way  to 
hasten  the  family  physician.  The  latter 
soon  arrived,  and,  after  a  few  minutes, 
pronounced  him  to  have  a  brain-fever, — 
the  end  of  which,  of  course,  no  man  could 
foresee. 

And  a  fearful  fever  indeed  it  was.  Day 
after  day  passed  in  wild  delirium.  The 
burden  of  all  the  poor  sufferer's  cries  and 
thoughts  was  that  he  was  a  murderer. 
He  used  to  call  himself  Cain,  and  to  try 
to  tear  the  murderer's  mark  out  of  his 
forehead.  Sometimes  he  rolled  himself 
in  the  sheet,  and  thought  that  he  was 


102  THE    ONE    MOSS-ROSE. 

dressed  in  a  funeral  cloak,  attending 
Jacob  Dobbin's  funeral,  and  all  the  while 
knowing  that  he  had  caused  his  death. 
At  times,  the  wretched  patient  would  at- 
tempt to  spring  from  his  bed;  and  now 
he  fancied  that  he  was  being  whipped 
with  the  thorny  branches  of  rose-trees; 
and  now  that  he  was  being  put  in  prison 
for  stealing  from  a  poor  man's  garden. 
At  one  time  he  thought  all  the  tenants 
on  the  estate  were  driving  him  from  it 
with  hounds,  while  he  was  fleeing  from 
them  on  his  gray  pony;  and  the  next 
moment  his  pony  was  entangled  hope- 
lessly in  the  branches  of  little  Dobbin's 
rose-tree,  and  the  dogs  were  on  him,  and 
the  huntsmen  were  hallooing,  and  he  was 
about  to  be  devoured.  .  All  these  were 
the  terrible  ravings  of  fever;  and  very 
awful  it  was  to  see  the  youth,  with  his 
hair  all  shaved  off  and  wet  cloths  over 


THE    ONE    MOSS-ROSE.  103 

his  head,  tossing  his  arms  about,  and 
endeavouring  at  times  to  burst  from  his 
nurses  and  leap  out  upon  the  floor.  The 
one  prevailing,  thought  in  all  the  sick 
boy's  ravings  was  Jacob  Dobbin's  rose- 
bush. Jacob,  or  his  rose-bush,  in  some 
form  or  other,  occupied  a  prominent  part 
in  every  vision. 

Ah!  how  terrible  are  the  lashings  of 
conscience !  How  terrible  are  the  effects 
of  sin!  For  what  a  small  gratification 
did  this  unhappy  youth  bring  so  much 
misery  upon  himself!  And  is  it  not  often 
thus?  The  apostle  says,  "What  fruit 
had  ye  then  in  those  things  whereof  ye 
are  now  ashamed?"  And  what  fruit  of 
pleasure  had  James  Courtenay  from  his 
plunder  of  Jacob  Dobbin's  rose?'  Where 
was  that  rose?  It  was  long  since  faded; 
its  leaves  were  mingled  with  the  dung- 
heap  upon  which  it  had  been  thrown ;  and 


104  THE    OKE    MOSS-ROSE. 

for  the  sake  of  the  transient  enjoyment 
of  possessing  that  flower  only  a  few  days 
before  an  abundance  of  them  would  have 
made  their  appearance  in  his  own  garden, 
he  had  brought  upon  himself  all  this  woe. 
Poor,  very  poor  indeed,  are  the  pleasures 
of  sin;  and  when  they  have  been  enjoyed, 
they  are  like  the  ashes  of  a  fire  that  has 
burned  out.  Compare  James  Courtenay's 
present  troubles, — his  torture  of  mind,  his 
pain  of  body,  his  risk  of  losing  his  life, 
— and  the  almost  momentary  enjoyment 
which  he  had  in  plundering  his  poor 
neighbour  of  his  moss-rose;  and  see  how 
Satan  cheats  in  his  promises  of  enjoyment 
from  sin. 

Let  not  Satan  persuade  us  that  there  is 
any  profit  in  sin.  Momentary  pleasure 
there  may  indeed  be,  but  it  is  soon  gone, 
and  then  come  sorrow  and  distress.  Sin 
is  a  sweet  cup  with  bitter  dregs,  and  he 


THE    ONE    MOSS-ROSE.  105 

who  drinks  the  little  sweet  that  there  is, 
must  drink  the  dregs  also.  Moments  of 
sin  may  cause  years  of  sorrow. 

For  many  days  James  Courtenay  hung 
between  life  and  death;  night  and  day  he 
was  watched  by  skilful  physicians,  but 
they  could  do  very  little  more  than  let 
the  disease  run  its  course.  At  length  a 
change  for  the  better  appeared;  the  un- 
happy boy  fell  into  a  long  sleep,  and 
when  he  opened  his  eyes  the  violence  of 
his  disease  had  abated.  But  it  had  left 
him  in  a  truly  pitiable  state.  It  was  a 
sad  sight  to  see  the  once  robust  boy  now 
very  little  better  than  a  skeleton;  to  hear 
the  once  loud  voice  now  no  stronger  than 
a  mere  whisper;  and  instead  of  the  mass 
of  brown  curly  hair,  to  behold  the  shaven 
head. 

But  all  this  Squire  Courtenay  did  not 


106  THE    ONE   MOSS-ROSE. 

so  much  mind.  His  son's  life  was  spared, 
and  he  made  no  doubt  but  that  care  and 
attention  would  soon  restore  him,  and  the 
curly  locks  would  grow  as  luxuriantly  as 
they  did  before.  Old  Aggie,  too,  was  full 
of  joy  that  the  boy  she  had  nursed  so 
tenderly,  and  for  whom  she  had  had  such 
long  anxiety,  was  not  cut  off  in  the  midst 
of  his  sins.  He  might  perhaps  have  his 
heart  changed  and  grow  up  to  be  a  good 
man.  And  what  an  opportunity  was  this 
for  trying  to  impress  his  mind!  Old 
Aggie  was  determined  that  it  should  not 
be  lost,  and  she  hoped  that  the  young 
squire  might  yet  prove  a  blessing,  and  not 
a  curse,  to  those  among  whom  he  lived. 

There  were  not  wanting  many  among 
Squire  Courtenay's  tenants  who  would 
have  been  very  glad  if  the  young  squire 
had  never  recovered.  They  had  tasted  a 
little  of  his  bad  character,  and  they  feared 


THE    ONE    A10SS-ROSE.  107 

that  if  lie  grew  up  to  inherit  the  property 
he  would  prove  a  tyrannical  landlord  to 
them.  But  among  these  was  not  to  be 
reckoned  old  Leonard  Dobbin,  True,  he 
had  suffered  terribly — indeed,  more  than 
any  one  else — from  James  Courtenay's 
evil  ways ;  but  he  did  not  on  that  account 
wish  him  dead : — far  from  it.  It  was  old 
Leonard's  great  fear  lest  the  young  squire 
should  die  in  his  sins ;  and  no  one  asked 
more  earnestly  about  the  invalid  than  this 
^ood  old  man. 

As  it  was  necessary  that  the  sick  boy 
should  be  kept  as  quiet  as  possible,  no  one 
went  near  his  room  except  old  Aggie  and 
those  whose  services  could  not  be  dis- 
pensed with.  Old  Aggie  alone  was  al- 
lowed to  talk  to  him;  and  a  long  time 
would  have  elapsed  before  she  could 
venture  to  speak  of  the  circumstances  ' 
which  had  brought  about  'this  dreadful 


108  THE    ONE   MOSS-ROSE. 

illness,  had  not  the  young  squire  himself 
entered  on  the  subject. 

"Aggie,"  said  James  Courtenay,  "you 
often  think  I  am  asleep  when  I  am  not; 
and  you  think  I  scarcely  have  my  mind 
about  me  yet,  when  I  lie  so  long  quite 
still,  looking  away  into  the  blue  sky. 
But  I  am  thinking;  I  am  always  think- 
ing; and  very  often  I  am  praying, — ask- 
ing forgiveness  for  the  past,  and  hoping 
that  I  shall  be  changed  for  the  future." 

"But  we  can't  do  much  by  hoping,"^ 
said  Aggie,  "  and  we  can't  do  any  thing 
by  ourselves." 

•l  I  mean  to  do  more  than  hope,"  said 
James  Courtenay:  "  I  mean  to  try." 

"And  you  mean,  I  trust,  to  ask  God's 
Spirit  to  help  you?"  said  Aggie. 

"Yes,  every  day,"  said  James.     "He 
'helped  Jacob,  and  he'll  help  me;  and  I 
hope  to  be  yet  where  Jacob  is  now." 


THE    ONE   MOSS-KOSE.  109 

"Ay,  He  helps'  the  poor,"  said  Aggie, 
"  and  He'll  help  the  rich.  Jacob  had  his 
trials,  and  you'll  have  your's;  and  per- 
haps your's  are  the  hardest,  so  far  as 
going  to  heaven  is  concerned ;  for  the  rich 
have  their  temptations  as  well  as  the 
poor.  Our  Lord  says  that  *  'tis  hard  for 
a  rich  man  to  enter  into  the  kingdom  of 
heaven.'  " 

For  many  days  James  Courtenay  thus 
pondered  and  prayed,  with  Aggie  as  his 
.chief  companion  and  instructor;  and  at 
length  he  was  able  to  leave  his  room. 
But  he  was  a  different  James  Courtenay 
from  the  one  who  had  entered  that  room 
some  months  before.  The  young  squire  was 
still  pale  and  thin ;  but  this  was  not  the 
chief  change  observable  in  him :  he  was 
silent  and  thoughtful  in  his  manner,  and 
gentle  and  kind  to  every  one  around. 
The  loud  voice,  which  once  rang  so  im- 


110  THE    ONE    MOSS-ROSE. 

periously  and  impatiently  through  the  cor- 
ridors, was  now  heard  no  more.  The 
hand  was  not  lifted  to  strike;  and  often 
gratitude  was  expressed  for  any  attention 
that  was  shown.  The  people  in  the 
house  looked  at  each  other,  and  won- 
dered :  they  could  scarcely  hope  that  such 
a  change  would  last;  and  when  he  re- 
turned to  full  health  and  strength  they 
quite  expected  the  old  state  of  things  to 
return  again.  But  they  were  mistaken. 
The  change  in  James  Courtenay  was  a 
real  one.  It  was  founded  on  something 
more  substantial  than  the  transient  feel- 
ings of  illness :  he  was  changed  in  his 
heart. 

And  very  soon  he  learned,  by  expe- 
rience, the  happiness  which  true  religion 
brings  with  it.  Instead  of  being  served 
unwillingly  by  those  around  him,  every 
one  was  anxious  to  please  him;  and  he 


THE   ONE    MOSS-EOSE.  Ill 

almost  wondered  at  times  whether  these 
could  be  the  same  people  with  whom  he 
had  lived  all  his  life.  They  now,  indeed, 
gave  a  service  of  love;  and  a  service  of 
love  is  as  different  from  a  service  of  mere 
duty  as  day  is  from  night. 

Wherever  the  young  squire  had  most 
displayed  his  passionate  temper,  there  he 
made  a  point  of  going,  for  the  sake  of 
speaking  kindly,  and  undoing,  so  far  as 
he  could,  the  evil  he  had  already  done. 
He  kept  ever  in  mind  that  there  was  not 
only  a  Saviour  by  whom  alone  he  could 
be  saved  from  his  sins,  but  also  that  there 
was  a  road  on  which  it  was  necessary  to 
walk, — a  road  which  ran  through  daily 
life;  a  road  on  which  loving  deeds  were 
to  be  done  and  loving  words  spoken, — 
the  road  of  obedience  to  the  will  of  Christ. 
James  Courtenay  well  knew  that  obe- 
dience could  not  save  him;  but  he  well 


112  THE   ONE    MOSS-KOSE. 

knew  also  that   obedience  was    required 
from  such  as  were  saved  by  sovereign  grace. 

Altered  as  James  Courtenay  undoubt- 
edly was,  and  earnest  as  he  felt  to  behave 
differently,  he  could  not  shake  off  the  sad 
memory  of  the  past.  His  mind  was  con- 
tinually brooding  upon  poor  little  Dob- 
bin's, death,  and  upon  the  share  which  he 
had  in  it.  For  now  he  knew  all  the 
truth.  He  had  seen  old  Leonard,  and 
sat  with  him  for  many  hours ;  and,  at  his 
earnest  request,  the  old  man  had  told  him 
all  the  truth. 

"  Keep  nothing  back  from  me,"  said 
the  young  squire,  as  he  sat  by  old  Leon- 
ard's humble  fireplace,  with  his  face  cov- 
ered with  his  hands;  and  over  and  over 
again  had  the  old  man  to  repeat  the  same 
story,  and  to  call  to  mind  every  word  that 
his  departed  son  had  said. 


THE    ONE    MOSS-EOSE.  113 

"What  shall  I  do,  Leonard,  to  show 
my  sorrow?"  asked  James  Courtenay,  one 
day.  "Will  you  go  and  live  in  a  new 
house,  if  I  get  my  father  to  build  one  for 
you?" 

11  Thank  you,"  said  Leonard.  "It  was 
here  that  Jacob  was  born  and  died,  and 
this  will  do  for  me  well  enough  as  long 
as  I  am  here:  and  it  don't  distress  me 
much  about  its  being  a  poor  kind  of  a 
place ;  for  I'm  only  here  for  a  while,  and 
I've  a  better  house  up  yonder." 

"Ay,"  said  James  Courtenay,  "and 
Jacob  is  up  yonder;  but  I  fear,  with  all 
my  striving,  I  shall  never  get  there ;  and 
what  good  will  all  my  fine  property  do  me, 
if  at  the  end  of  all  I  am  shut  out  of  the 
happy  land?" 

"You  need  not  be  shut  out,"  said  old 
Dobbin;  and  he  pulled  down  the  worn 
Bible  from  the  shelf;  "no,  no;  you  need 


114  THE    ONE    MOSS-ROSE. 

not  be  shut  out.  Here  is  the  verse  that 
secured  poor  Jacob's  inheritance,  and  here 
is  the  verse  that,  by  God's  grace,  secures 
mine,  and  it  may  secure  your's  too;"  and 
the  old  man  read  out  the  passage  in  1 
John  i.  7:— "The  blood  of  Jesus  Christ  his 
Son  cleanseth  us  from  all  sin."  "All, 
all!"  cried  old  Dobbin,  his  voice  rising  as 
he  proceeded,  for  his  heart  was  on  fire; 
"from  murder,  theft,  -  lying,  stealing, — 
every  thing,  every  thing !  Oh,  what  sinners 
are  now  in  glory! — Sinners  no  longer,  but 
saints,  washed  in  the  precious  blood !  Oh, 
how  many  are  there  now  on  earth  waiting 
to  be  taken  away  and  be  forever  with  the 
Lord  1  I  am  bad,  my  heart  is  full  of  sin 
in  itself;  but  the  blood  of  Jesus  cleanseth 
from  all  sin; — and  whatever  you  have 
done  may  be  all  washed  out.  Only  cast 
yourself,  body  and  soul,  on  Christ." 

"But  how  could  I  ever  meet  Jacob  in 


THE    ONE    MOSS-EOSE.  115 

heaven?"  murmured  trie  young  squire 
from  between^  his  hands,  in  which  he  had 
buried  his  face.  "When  I  see  him,  must 
not  I  feel  that  I  murdered  him?  Ay,  I 
was  the  cause  of  his  misery  and  death, — 
all  for  the  sake  of  one  fading,  worthless 
flower!" 

"Don't  call  it  worthless.  'Twas  God's 
creature,  and  very  beautiful  while  it  lasted; 
and  you  can't  call  a  thing  worthless  that 
gave  a  human  being  as  much  pleasure  as 
that  rose  gave  my  poor  child;  but,  what- 
ever it  was,  if  will  make  no  hindrance  to 
Jacob's  meeting  you  in  heaven, — ay,  and 
welcoming  you  there,  too.  If  you  reach 
that  happy  place,  I'll  be  bound  Jacob  will 
meet  you  with  a  smile,  and  will  welcome 
you  with  a  song  into  the  happy  land." 

"Well,  'tis  hard  to  understand,"  said 
James  Courtenay. 

"Yes,  yes,  hard  to  our  poor  natures, 


116  THE   ONE    MOSS-ROSE. 

but  easy  to  those  who  are  quite  like  their 
Saviour,  as  Jacob  is  now.  When  He  was 
upon  earth,  he  taught  his  followers  to  for- 
give and  to  love  their  enemies,  and  to  do 
good  to  such  as  used  them  despitefully ; 
and  we  may  be  sure,  that,  now  they  are 
with  him  and  are  made  like  him,  they 
carry  out  all  he  would  have  them  do,  and 
they  are  all  he  would  have  them  be.  I 
don't  believe  that  there  is  one  in  heaven 
that  would  be  more  glad  to  see  you  than 
my  poor  boy, — if  I  may  call  him  so,  see- 
ing he's  now  in  glory." 

Many  were  the  conversations  of  this 
kind  which  passed  between  old  Leonard 
and  the  young  squire;  and  gradually  the 
latter  obtained  more  peace  in  his  mind. 
True,  he  could  never  divest  himself  of  the 
awful .  thought  that  he  had  been  the  im- 
mediate cause  of  his  humble  neighbour's 
death ;  but  he  dwelt  very  much  upon  that 


THE    ONE   MOSS-EOSE.  117 

word  "all,"  and  Aggie  repeated  old  Leon- 
ard's lessons,  and  by  degrees  he  was  able 
to  lay  even  his  greatest  trouble  upon  his 
Saviour. 

But  all  that  James  Courtenay  had  gone 
through  had  told  fearfully  upon  his  health. 
His  friends,  who  watched  him  anxiously, 
saw  that  as  weeks  rolled  on  he  gained  no 
strength,  and  at  length  it  was  evident  that 
he  was  in  a  consumption,  in  a  very  rapid 
form.  At  his  own  earnest  request,  he  was 
told  what  his  condition  really  was ;  and, 
when  he  heard  it,  not  a  tear  started  in  his 
eye,  not  a  murmur  escaped  his  lips.  One 
request,  and  one  only,  did  he  prefer;  and 
that  was,  that  Leonard  Dobbin  should  be 
admitted  to  his  room  as  often  as  he  wished 
to  see  him.  And  with  Leonard  came  the 
old  worn  Bible.  The  good  old  labourer 
was  afraid,  with  his  rough  hands,  to  touch 
the  richly  bound  and  gilt  volume  that  was 


118  THE    ONE   MOSS-EOSE. 

brought  up  from  trie  library;  but  he  knew 
every  page  in  his  own  well-thumbed  old 
book,  and  in  that  he  read,  and  from  that 
he  discoursed. 

The  minister  came  now  and  then;  but 
when  he  heard  of  what  service  old  Leon- 
ard had  been  to  the  young  man,  he  said 
that  God  could  use  the  uneducated  as  well 
as  the  learned,  and  he  rejoiced  that  by  any 
instrumentality,  however  humble,  God  had 
in  grace  and  mercy  wrought  upon  -the  soul 
of  this  wayward  boy. 

When  the  end  of  his  life  was  evidently 
very  near,  he  said  to  his  father, — 

"You  remember  that  grandmother  left 
me  some  money  when  she  died:  give 
Leonard  Dobbin  as  much  every  year  as 
will  support  him;  and  give  him  my  gray 
pony,  that  he  may  be  carried  about,  for  he 
is  getting  too  old  to  work:  and" — and  it 
seemed  as  though  the  dying  boy  had  to 


THE   ONE    MOSS-KOSE.  119 

summon  up  all  his  strength  to  say  it — 
"bury  me,  not  in  our  own  marble  vault, 
but  by  Jacob  Dobbin's  grave ;  and  put  up 
a  monument  in  our  church  to  Jacob,  and 
cut  upon  it  a  broken  rose ;  and  let  a  rose- 
bush be  planted  close  to  where  poor  Jacob 
lies " 

He  could  say  no  more,  and  it  was  a 
long  time  before  he  spoke  again;  when  he 
did,  it  was  evident  that  he  was  very  near 
the  other  world.  With  the  little  strength 
at  his  command,  the  dying  boy  muttered 
old  Leonard's  name,  and  in  a  moment  the 
aged  Christian,  with  his  Bible  in  his  hand, 
stood  by  the  bedside. 

Opening  his  Bible  at  the  well-known 
place,  he  read  aloud,  "  The  blood  of 
Jesus  Christ  his  Son  cleanseth  us  from  all 
sin." 

"All,  all''  whispered  the  dying  boy. 

"All,  all"  responded  the  old  man. 


120  THE    ONE    MOSS-EOSE. 

"All,  all"  was  faintly  echoed.  And 
directly  James  Courtenay  had  departed  to 
realize  the  truth  of  the  words,  "that  the 
blood  of  Jesus  Christ  cleanseth  from  all 
sin." 

Next  to  the  chief  mourners  at  the 
funeral  walked  old  Leonard  Dobbin;  and 
close  by  the  poor  crippled  Jacob's  grave 
they  buried  James  Courtenay, — so  close 
that  the  two  graves  seemed  almost  one. 
And  when  a  little  time  had  elapsed,  the 
squire  had  a  handsome  tomb  placed  over 
his  son,  which  covered  in  the  remains  of 
poor  Jacob  too,  and  at  the  head  of  it  was 
planted  the  moss-rose-tree !  Roses  enough 
does  that  rose-bush  bear,  but  no  one  pulls 
them;  and  now  the  old  Hall  is  without 
an  heir,  and  the  squire  without  a  son. 
But  there  is  good  hope  that  the  squire 
thinks  of  a  better  world,  and  that  he 
would  rather  have  his  boy  safe  in  heaven 


THE   ONE   MOSS-EOSE.  121 

than  here  amid  the  temptations  of  riches 
again. 

Oh,  what  a  wonder  that  there  is  mercy 
for  the  greatest  sinners !  But,  oh,  what 
misery  comes  of  sin!  "The  wages  of  sin 
is  death;  but  the  gift  of  God  is  eternal 
life  through  Jesus  Christ  our  Lord." 


"AFTER  ALL." 


123 


AFTEK   ALL! 


\0  you  are  in  great  trouble  still, 
John?"  said  an  old  minister  to 
a  hard-looking,  worn-out  man  of 
about  forty-five  years  of  age, 
who  sat  propped  up  with  pillows  by  the 
fireside. 

"Ay!  you  just  say  it,  sir,"  answered 
John  Harris;  "in  great  trouble  still;  and 
I'm  afraid  that  '  still'  will  always  be 
*  still,'  and  will  never  come  to  an  end.'r 

"Well,  I'm  not  altogether  so  much 
afraid  as  you  are,"  answered  the  old  gen- 
tleman. "I've  seen  such  wonderful  things 
done  for  sinners  in  my  day — ay,  John 

11*     *  125 


126  AFTER    ALL! 

Harris,  and  such  wonderful  things  done 
for  myself — that  I'm  very  hopeful,  and  I 
cannot  but  think  that  something  won- 
derful will  yet  be  done  for  you." 

"Well,  if  any  thing  is,  it  will  be  won- 
derful, that's  all  I  can  say;  and  may  it 
be  done  soon;  for  I  feel  a  sinking  here," 
said  Harris,  spreading  his  five  fingers 
wide  open  over  his  chest,  "  and  I  know 
what  that  means.  Every  one  of  these 
sinkings  and  shiverings  is  just  one  step 
nearer  the  church-yard." 

"Come,  now,"  said  the  old  minister: 
"to  be  willing  is  half  the  battle." 

"Yes,  I  am  willing;  but  the  old  sins 
keep  fighting  me.  The  number  of  them, 
and  the  variety,  and  what  I  call  ( the  deep- 
down  depth  of  them,'  I  can't  get  them 
out  of  the  way:  they  are  too  many  for 
me.  I  don't  think  God  ever  meant  his 
promises  or  his  offers  for  the  like  of  me. 


AFTER    ALL!  127 

If  you  had  come  to  me  when  I  was  about 
sixteen,  and  hadn't  such  an  awful  load  of 
sin  upon  me  as  I  have  now,  I  might  have 
been  the  better  for  your  visit ;  but  there 
is  now  a  terrible  past, — a  past  soaked  in 
sin,"  said  John  Harris,  almost  fiercely. 
"I  see  it,  I  know  it,  I  own  it;  and  'tis 
this  past  that  is  standing  between  me  and 
God,  between  me  and  Christ,  between  me 
and  heaven." 

"Well,  now,"  said  the  old  minister, 
"  you've  made  a  clean  breast  of  it  at  last. 
I  could  never  make  out  exactly  what  was 
hindering  you.  You  told  me  you  believed 
that  God  was  merciful,  and  you  believed 
in  the  merits  of  the  Redeemer,  and  you 
believed  you  needed  the  Saviour ;  and 
now,  my  friend,  in  spite  of  all  this,  I  see  : 
the  past, — the  past, — that  is  what  pre- 
vents your  having  peace  in  the  present 
and  hope  in  the  future.  And  now  let  me 


128 


AFTER   ALL! 


assure  you,  John,  it  is  the  devil  that  is 
working  the  past  so  hard.  It  is  a  capital 
tool  in  his  hand;  it  has  two  edges,  and  he 
can  work  it  either  way.  By  making  men 
careless  about  it,  he  can  ruin  their  soul; 
and  mark  me,  John,  by  making  them  too 
care/16/,  he  can  do  it  also.  If  he  can  keep 
a  man  thinking  of  his  past  sin  and 
nothing  else,  then  that  past  will  keep  him 
from  the  cross — 

"Ay,  ay, — '  the  cross!'  You're  always 
working  round  to  that,"  said  the  sick  man. 
"  But  what  I  want  to  hear  about  is  God, 
— rnind  you.  Tis  God  that's  frightening 
me ;  and  if  you  want  to  comfort  me,  tell 
me  something  about  Him." 

"Well,  John,  I  won't  be  angry  with 
you  for  telling  me  that  I  am  sure  to  work 
round  to  the  cross.  I  don't  see  how  any 
man  with  the  Bible  in  his  hand  can  do 
otherwise;  and  to-night  we'll  be  safe  to 


AFTEE   ALL!  129 

work  round  to  it  before  we've  done.  But 
we  will  talk  principally  about  God,  if  you 
like,  and  that  with  reference  to  this  terri- 
ble l  past.'  I  had  plenty  of  sins  on  my 
back  when  I  was  called  upon  to  think 
about  my  soul,  and  the  past  was  a  trouble 
to  me  as  well  as  to  you." 

"  Ha!"  said  John  Harris,  eagerly ;  "  and 
how  did  you  get  rid  of  it?" 

"  Why,  I  searched  about  a  good  deal  in 
the  Scriptures,  sometimes  getting  a  little 
comfort  here,  and  sometimes  a  little  there, 
until  one  day  I  opened  the  prophet  Jere- 
miah, and  there  I  came  upon  a  verse,  in 
which  were  two  words,  which  did  wonders 
for  me." 

"May-be  they'll  suit  me,"  interrupted 
Harris.  "What  were  they?" 

"May-be   they  will,"  said  his  visitor, 
solemnly.     "  The  two  words  were, — 
ALL.' 


130  AFTER    ALL! 

But  I'll  read  them  to  you."  And  the 
minister  turned  to  Jeremiah  iii.  7.  'And 
I  said,  after  she  had  done  all  these  things, 
Turn  thou  unto  me.'  Now,  John,  I'm  ready 
to  talk  to-night  about  that  one  bit  of  a 
verse;  and  I  think  that  where  there  was 
comfort  for  me  there  is  comfort  for  you  too." 

"Well,"  said  John  Harris,  "I'm  glad 
to  get  comfort  anywhere :  so  I'm  ready  to 
hear  all  you  have  to  say." 

"Now,  John,  your  great  trouble  is  that 
you  have  been  so  bad.  Yes,  and  you 
don't  know  how  bad, — a  great  deal  worse 
than  you  know,  or  are  ever  likely  to 
know.  -God  only  knows  how  bad  you 
have  been.  And  a  part  of  your  comfort  is 
that  God  knows  how  bad.  There  are 
many  people  who  could  not  see  much 
comfort  in  that  thought;  but  the  more  I 
think  of  it  the  more  it  comforts  me.  For, 
when  I  take  up  such  a  verse  as  this,  and 


AFTEE   ALL!  131 

read  the  words  'all'  and  'these,'  and  see 
that  the  word  '  all'  means  a  great  number, 
and  '  these'  means  the  great  number,  one 
by  one,  with  every  thing  about  them,  I 
say  to  myself,  '  Now,  then,  there  will  be 
no  going  back  of  his  word,  owing  to  any 
mistake  or  any  after-discovery.  He  has 
nothing  to  find  out  about  me.  He  knows 
every  thing,  and  He  knew  it  all  when  He 
gave  me  the  precious  invitations  in  the 
gospel;  and,  therefore,  if  I  accept  his 
invitations  and  take  Him  at  his  word,  I 
must  be  safe.'  Now,  John,  if  God  were 
like,  man,  He  might  be  making  a  mistake, 
or  be  finding  out  things  afterwards,  which 
would  make  him  change  his  mind.  But 
He  knows  all  your  sirife,  and  when  and 
how  and  where  you  committed  each  of 
them ;  and  He  says,  'After  you  have  done 
all  these  things,  turn  thou  to  me.'  Some- 
times Satan  used  to  trouble  me  very  much 


132  AFTER    ALL! 

by  saying,  'Ah,  but  if  you  knew  how  bad 
you  have  been,  and  how  bad  you  are,  you 
never  could  hope  for  any  mercy;'  but  I 
always  have  an  answer  for  him.  I  say, 
'The  God  I  have  to  deal  with  knows  all 
about  it, — far  more  than  you  do ;  and  if 
He  passes  his  word  to  me  after  I  have 
done  all  these  things,  He  won't  go  back 
of  it  again.' " 

"And  a  good  answer,  too,"  said  John 
Harris.  "I  know  that  nothing  good  can 
come  of  hiding  one's  sins  and  not  making 
a  clean  breast  of  them;  for  they'll  be  sure 
to  come  out  afterwards.  But  where  I'm 
partly  troubled,  is  by  the  remembrance 
now  and  again  of  some  particular  sin,  that 
I  have  not  confessed,  because  it  didn't 
come  into  my  head;  and  if  you  hear  Satan 
talking  to  you,  so  do  I  also;  for  he  says, 
'Ah!  if  you  had  died  without  confessing 
that  sin,  you  must  have  been  lost;  and 


AFTER  ALL!  133 

there  are  a  great  many  more  that  you 
can't  remember;  and  so  you  can't  confess 
them;  and  so  you're  pretty  sure,  with  all 
your  confessing  and  all  your  trying,  to 
come  to  me  at  last.' " 

"The  devil's  logic,  no  doubt,"  said  the 
minister;  "but  you  may  meet  him  by  say- 
ing, '  God  knows  all ;  and  I  confess  myself 
guilty  of  all  God  knows ;  and  I  am  willing 
to  make  confession  of  each  particular  sin 
as  the  Spirit  of  God  brings  it  to  my  re- 
membrance;' and  unless  Satan  knows  more 
than  God  knows,  I  don't  see  how  he  can 
work  your  ruin.  We  must  just  come  as 
we  are,  with  the  l  all'  upon  us;  and  come 
to  God  with  good  hope,  too.  Did  not  God 
say,  'after  she  had  done  all  these  things, 
Turn  thou  to  me'?" 

"I  wish,"  said  John  Harris,  after  musing 
a  while,  "that  I  could  undo  the  past." 

"Well,  John,  that's  a  good  wish  in  it- 


134  AFTER    ALL! 

self;  but  it  is  a  vain  one,  for  you  cannot 
undo  it.  What's  done  is  done,  and  can- 
not be  undone ;  and  let  me  tell  you  that 
this  wish  is  not  only  vain,  it  may  prove 
to  be  mischievous  also.  This  wish  of 
your's,  which  is  good  enough  in  itself,  may 
be  made  the  means  of  your  keeping  away 
from  the  One  who  can  take  away  your  sin ; 
for  as  long  as  Satan  can  keep  you  just  at 
wishing  you  had  never  done  what  has  been 
done  and  cannot  be  undone,  you  are 
never  likely  to  get  on.  As  you  can't 
come  to  God  without  the  sin,  why,  come, 
man,  with  it,  He  says,  *  After  all!'  " 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  John  Harris, 
"that  God's  knowing  all,  almost  makes  it 
sure  that  a  man  will  be  destroyed.  How 
can  He  have  any  thing  to  do  with  him, 
when  He  knows  so  much  about  him?" 

"  AVhat  you  make  to  be  against  a  man," 
answered  the  old  minister,  "I  make  to  be 


AFTER    ALL!  135 

for  him ;  for  I  reason  thus : — Here  is  a  plain 
proof  that  God  is  not  seeking  our  death. 
If  He  willed  it,  all  is  ready.  'All  these 
things!'  the  list  of  our  sins  is  in  his  hand; 
we  have  put  ourselves  within  the  power 
of  his  law.  He  has  not  to  wait  a  single 
moment,  until  we  do  even  one  more  sin. 
We  have  done  enough,  and  more  than 
enough,  for  our  ruin  already.  One  sin 
would  ruin  us,  but  we  have  committed 
hundreds  of  thousands;  and  still  He  says, 
'After  all  these  things.'  All  He  has  to 
do  is  to  leave  us  to  ourselves,  or  to  -reject 
us  in  our  terror  when  we  come  to  own 
that  we  are  undone ;  but  what  He  says  is 
this: — 'I  know  allvabout  you,  but  I  do  not 
want  to  slay  you.  Do  not  hold  back  be- 
cause you  are  bowed  down  with  shame,  or 
because  you  are  terrified  at  the  appearance 
you  know  you  must  present  before  me.  I 
have  seen  you  already,  I  know  all  about 


136  AFTER    ALL! 

you, — a  great  deal  more  than  you  know 
yourself, — and  now,  "  after  all  these  things, 
Turn  thou  unto  me."  '  When  we  come  to 
think  of  how  much  He  knows  about  us, 
when  He  uses  these  words,  isn't  it  quite 
plain  that  He  can't  be  seeking  our  death; 
yes,  and  more  than  this, — that  He  gives  us 
every  opportunity  of  life;  and  that,  if  we 
will  destroy  ourselves,  it  is  in  spite  of  all 
his  grace  and  kindness  and  love?  Did 
you  ever  think,  John,  of  how  easy  it  would 
be  for  God  to  destroy  a  sinner  f" 

"To  be  sure  I  did;  and  that's  just 
another  of  the  things  that  trouble  me  so 
much.  Now  my  time  is  drawing  near  for 
appearing  before  Him,  I  feel  He  can  make 
short  work  with  me.  'Tis  awful  to  feel 
that  one  can  do  nothing  to  help  one's  self, 
but  that  one  must  lie  down  as  weak  as  a 
child  before  that  Mighty  One.  I  have 
many  a  sad  hour  when  I  think  of  this." 


AFTER   ALL!  137 

"I  have  you  again,"  said  the  old 
minister ;  ' '  surely  this  is  another  plain  proof 
that  God  does  not  want  to  ruin  you.  For 
if  He  wanted  to  kill  you,  He  had  nothing 
to  do  but  to  leave  you  to  yourself.  He 
need  never  have  said  a  word  about  re- 
ceiving you  or  restoring  you.  He  need 
have  taken  no  trouble  about  you.  He 
might  have  said,  '  Leave  that  man  to  him- 
self.'" 

"And,"  interrupted  the  sick  man, 
"when  a  man  is  left  to  himself,  he'll  go 
to  ruin  in  spite  of  all  he  can  do." 

"  Well,  John,  and  therefore  God  has  not 
left  you  to  yourself.  He  comes  and  speaks 
to  you,  and  says,  '  After  you  have  done  all 
these  things,  Turn  thou  to  me.'  So  far 
from  leaving  you  to  yourself,  He  sends 
you  promises  and  offers,  and  fills  the 
Holy  Scriptures  with  his  declarations  of 

good  will  to  sinners ;  and  the  very  fact  of 
12* 


138  AFTER   ALL! 

his  not  leaving  you  to  yourself  is  a  proof, 
I  think,  that  He  is  not  seeking  your  death. 
Yes,  more  than  this,  'tis  a  proof  that  He 
is  seeking  your  life.  'As  I  live,  saith  the 
Lord,  I  have  no  pleasure  in  the  death  of 
him  that  dieth.'" 

"  Well,"  said  John  Harris,  after  a  pause, 
"I  don't  think  I  have  been  left  to  myself, 
at  any  rate.  What  with  Satan,  or  my 
poor  conscience,  I  don't  know  which  it  is, 
always  reminding  me  how  bad  I  am,  and 
that  I  cannot  be  saved;  and,  then,  texts 
turning  up  here  and  there,  telling  me  I 
can  be  saved,  I  am  not  left  alone,  at  any 
rate;  and  may-be  there  is  some  comfort  to 
be  had  even  out  of  this." 

"To  be  sure  there  is,  my  friend.  There 
is  always  comfort  to  be  had  for  troubled 
souls :  it  is  for  those  who  have  no  trouble 
that  there  is  no  comfort.  The  man  that 
has  no  trouble  does  not  know  his  need  of 


AFTER   ALL!  139 

a  Saviour.  All  his  trouble  will  come  upon 
him  when  it  is  too  late.  There  may  be 
trouble  and  comfort  now;  there  must  be 
trouble  and  no  comfort  by-and-by." 

"  But  now  tell  me,  which  is  it,  Satan 
or  my  conscience,  that  is  telling  me  that  I 
am  too  bad, — that  I  have  committed  too 
many  sins  to  be  saved?" 

"  My  opinion,  John,  upon  that  matter 
is,  that  it  is  Satan  making  use  of  your 
conscience.  Conscience  says  to  you  that 
you  have  committed  so  many  sins;  and 
then  Satan  says,  '  The  man  that  has  com- 
mitted so  many  sins  surely  cannot  be 
saved.'  Now,  if  you  take  my  advice, 
you'll  just  mind  what  conscience  says  to 
you,  and  pay  no  heed  to  what  Satan  tells 
you  about  it.  Let  Christ  deal  with  your 
conscience.  And  when  you  confess  that 
you  are  a  dreadful  sinner,  and  have  com- 
mitted an  immense  number  of  sins,  then 


140  AFTER   ALL! 

hear  how  Christ  deals  with  people  in  such 
a. plight.  He  says,  'Come  unto  me,  all  ye 
that  labour  and  are  heavy  laden,  and  I 
will  give  you  rest.'  " 

"  That's  not  a  bad  direction  to  give 
conscience, ' '  said  the  sick  man .  "I  declare, 
the  thought  never  struck  me  before.  I 
always  thought  of  conscience  in  connection 
with  Satan,  but .  never  in  connection  with 
Christ." 

.  "  There  is  no  other  way  in  which  the 
conscience  can  have  peace,"  said  the  old 
minister,  "  except  in  connection  with 
Christ.  Satan  knows  this  well.  If  he 
can,  he  will  keep  the  conscience  asleep, — 
that  is  one  way  of  keeping  a  man  from 
Christ;  and  if  he  can't  do  that,  he  makes 
the  conscience  so  alarmed,  and  keeps  it  so 
alarmed,  that  a  man  thinks  himself  too 
bad  to  come  to  Christ.  But  there's 
nothing  for  the  man  but  to  come  with 


AFTEE  ALL!  141 

conscience  and  sin  and  all,  just  'as  he  is. 
Don't  forget,  John,  the  starting-point  of 
our  talk, — 'And  I  said,  after  she  had  done 
all  these  things,  Turn  thou  to  me.'  " 

"  That,  certainly,  was  a  wonderful 
speech ;  and,  if  one  looks  into  it,  one 
wonders  that  God  ever  said  it." 

"  No  one  else  could  have  said  it,  my 
friend,  but  Himself.  He  had  the  full 
right;  and  that  is  a  great  point  to  be 
remembered,  if  we  are  to  get  comfort 
from  such  a  verse  as  this.  What  good 
would  it  be  to  me  that  a  man  promised 
me  five  thousand  dollars  to  help  me  in 
my  distress,  if  he  hadn't  it  to  give?  He 
might  give  me  a  check  for  the  money; 
but  if  he  has  nothing  in  the  bank,  he 
has  no  right  to  do  it,  and  he  makes  my 
case  worse  than  it  was  before ;  for  I  find 
myself  befooled  as  well  as  ruined.  If  God 
liad  not  the  fullest  right  to  say  'After  all/ 


142  AFTER   ALL! 

He  would  not  say  it.  He  would  be  only 
mocking  us  in  our  misery.  He  would  no 
longer  be  a  God  of  truth;  and,  after 
having  'trusted  Him  with  every  thing,  we 
should  find  ourselves  ruined  at  the  last. 
You  know,  John,  that  God  is  very  jealous 
of  his  own  honour." 

"Ay,  indeed,  I  believe  that.  And  you're 
just  now  bringing  up  another  of  my  trou- 
bles ;  for  I  feel  how  terribly  I  have  offended 
against  his  honour,  and  that  He  is,  so  to 
speak,  in  honour  bound  to  punish  me." 

"John  Harris,  leave  God  to  take  care 

of  his  own  honour.     He  is  better  able 

/ 

to  take  care  of  it  than  you  are.  If  He 
said  'After  all,'  He  knew  He  could  say 
it ;  and  He  never  would  have  done  so 
if  it  would  tarnish  his  own  glory.  I  can 
show  you  where  you'll  find  something 
about  that.  Just  turn  over  to  the  epistle 
to  the  Romans:  that's  it  next  after  the 


AFTER  ALL!  143 

Acts  of  the  Apostles.  Now  loot  at  the 
third  chapter  and  the  twenty-third  verse, 
and  the  two  following: — 'For  all  have 
sinned,  and  come  short  of  the  glory  of 
God ;  being  justified  freely  by  his  grace 
through  the  redemption  that  is  in  Christ 
Jesus :  whom  God  hath  set  forth  to  be  a 
propitiation  through  faith  in  his  blood,  to 
declare  his*  righteousness  for  the  remis- 
sion of  sins  that  are  past,  through  the  for- 
bearance of  God  ;  to  declare,  I  say,  at  this 
time  his  righteousness :  that  He  might  be 
just,  and  the  justifier  of  him  that  believeth 
in  Jesus.'  " 

"  '  Through  faith  in  his  blood.'  I  sup- 
pose that  means  trusting  in  his  death  on 
the  cross." 

"Ah!  ah!  my  friend  John.  So  it  is 
you,  not  I,  that  have  worked  round  to 
the  cross ;  but  it  does  not  matter  which 
of  us  does  it,  -round  to  this  it  must  come 


144  AFTER   ALL! 

at  last.  You  see  how  well  God  took  care 
of  his  own  honour,  when  He  settled  a 
way  by  which  man  could  be  saved.  His 
honour  was  concerned  in  being  just;  and 
Jesus  satisfied  his  justice  by  his  death 
upon  the  cross;  so,  now,  as  the  apostle 
says  in  Acts  xiii.,  'by  Him  all  that  believe 
are  justified  from  all  things.'  Yes;  though 
we  have  been  fearful  sinners,  such  is  the 
preciousness  of  Christ's  sacrifice  that  God 
can  for  his  sake  forgive  us  all." 

"What  about  my  past  neglect?"  said 
John  Harris. 

"ALL  THINGS!"  shortly  answered  hia 
friend. 

"And  my  rejection  of  Christ?" 

"ALL  THINGS!" 

"And  my  mocking  at  religion?" 

"ALL  THINGS!" 

"And  my  dissipation  and  drink?" 

"ALL  THINGS!" 


AFTER    ALL!  145 

"And  my  ill-treatment  of  my  pious 
neighbours?" 

"ALL  THINGS!" 

"And  my  neglect  of  prayer  and  God's 
house?" 

"ALL  THINGS!" 

"And  my  having  given  the  best  of  my 
days  to  the  service  of  the  devil  and  sin?" 

"ALL  THINGS!" 

"Come;  don't  keep  on  with  the  same 
words." 

"Well,  John,  I'll  alter  them  next  time.'1 

"And  my  horrible  blasphemy  against 
the  name  of  Christ?" 

"AFTER  ALL!" 

"And  my  swearing  that  I  never  would 
be  a  Christian?" 

"  'AFTER  ALL!'  'AFTER  ALL!'  'AFTER 
ALL!'  "  said  the  old  minister,  with  light 
kindling  in  his  eyes,  and  his  two  hands 
lifted  up  to  heaven: — "  'AFTER  ALL!'  Go 


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